Just A Touch
by Enn Arr
Summary: Sometimes, what we see isn’t what it seems, and what appears above the surface isn’t the same as below. Harry unravels the life of Lord Voldemort and discovers he doesn’t really know him as well as he thinks. Who is the man behind the monster? And what does a girl named Hermione have to do with all of this? Multiple POV’s. AU. JAS spin-off (sort of). [Hermione Granger x Tom Riddle]
1. September 19, 1996 — Present Time

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter One**

**_September 19, 1996 — Present Time_**

A green eyed young man was standing in the doorway, looking indecisive for a second, before mustering the courage to step into the office in determined steps. He crossed the threshold and headed towards the old man who was sitting behind his desk, examining the odd whirling contraptions on the wooden surface with reverence. There was a slight nostalgic expression on his face as he caressed the contraptions and the absent twinkle in his eyes and the obvious sorrow that his presence emitted made the green eyed man pause. He had never seen the old man looking melancholy and for no reason at all. The old man had always been strange, considered mad by some circles and brilliant by the most, but he embraced it and even went as far as dressing mismatched robes. The old man always appeared serene but happy and to see him without the twinkle in his eyes that spoke of mischief and youthfulness that wasn't measured by age was strange.

The expression disappeared, however, when the old man looked up and saw him standing before him.

"Good evening, sir," said Harry Potter, smiling sheepishly at the old man.

"Harry." The old man, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, regarded the young man with warmth. "To what do I owe this visit? Care for a Lemon Drop?"

"No, thank you, sir," he said before he hesitated. "Uhm, I'm actually here to ask you a question, sir."

"What is it, Harry?" Albus questioned as he gestured for him to take a seat.

Harry did so with a grateful smile. His knees were shaking earlier and sitting felt like it would ease the anxiety he was feeling. "If you don't mind, sir. You've always told me that a war is coming and that I should be prepared for it to happen. I'm just wondering if you can tell me something more about Voldemort. You told me yourself that I have to know my enemy but I have a feeling that I don't know him well enough. I was hoping that you could help with that, sir."

For a second, it seemed as though the headmaster was angry but his face cleared and Harry dismissed it as his imagination. The headmaster sighed as he lowered a piece of the whirling contraption to his desk in front of him. He then intertwined his fingers on the table and regarded the green eyed man with solemn eyes.

"Tell me, Harry," he said, "what would you do to save your loved ones?"

The abrupt question made the green eyed man blink in surprise. "Uh, sir?"

Albus smiled serenely. "Humor an old man, Harry. What would you do to save your loved ones?"

The answer came easy to him. "Everything."

"Everything?" His blue eyes glinted with an unnamed emotion. "Can you define everything, Harry?"

This made Harry gulp. "Everything, sir. I'll fight for them and protect them. I'll give up everything for them. Even if it meant sacrificing myself, sir. I'll do all of that to save them."

Albus stare at him with unseeing eyes and he didn't speak for a long moment. Silence surrounded them and Harry fidgeted in his seat, uncomfortable by it and the unusual atmosphere of sorrow in the room.

"Uh, sir?" He finally said, making the headmaster focus his eyes on him.

Albus gave him a faint smile. "Forgive an old man, Harry, but this day has more impact for me than most days."

Harry was sheepish. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to talk to you in a bad time. I'll come back—"

"No, no. It's okay, Harry. Any distraction is welcome as of the moment. I fear that I wouldn't survive this day without reprieve." The headmaster sighed and stared at the contraptions. "If you want to understand Voldemort, Harry, then you must understand Tom Riddle as well."

Harry furrowed his eyebrows. "But isn't Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort the same, sir?"

"Oh, no, Harry." Albus shook his head at him. "I can assure you that those two aren't the same. They might have the same body but they are two different people. Voldemort is nothing but a broken man, a mad man, but Tom Riddle was a brilliant one." He narrowed his eyes in contemplation. "Tell me, Harry, why do you think that Lord Voldemort didn't survive that night your parents died?"

"Because of my mother's sacrifice," he said without hesitation, ignoring the pang of pain in his chest. "She gave up her life for me and her love protected me that night."

Albus nodded. "Incomplete but correct. You see, Harry, Lord Voldemort's soul is corrupted at that point. A mother's love is one of the purest form of magic and Lord Voldemort's soul couldn't handle such love. Thus, he didn't survive that night." Albus paused. "But if Lord Voldemort was still Tom Riddle, he would've understand and he would've survived."

"Sir, I don't think I understand what you mean." Harry was perplexed. He had always associated Tom Riddle as Lord Voldemort. They were the same people: they were both evil and tainted. They were irredeemable. "How could Tom Riddle be able to understand and survive that love, sir? I mean, I get that he was brilliant but you said that he was conceived by a love potion, sir. I thought it meant that he couldn't feel love because of it."

"Tom Riddle is still human, Harry," said Albus. "He could still feel anger, sorrow, regret, and, yes, even love. However, Tom lacked a certain quality that should've made him more human: empathy. Or rather, his empathetic nature is selective. He doesn't feel for anyone aside from those he considered his friends."

"But he doesn't have friends," argued Harry. "He has followers."

"Lord Voldemort has followers, Harry, but Tom Riddle has a friend," Albus calmly rebuked. "I told you that they are not the same person, didn't I?"

Harry blinked. He still didn't quite grasp the fact that they weren't the same entity. He had met Tom Riddle in his second year and although his appearance was different from the current Lord Voldemort, they had the same ideals and the same fears. They both wanted to kill him that was for certain.

Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but I still don't understand. Why are you telling me this, sir?"

"Oh, Harry." Albus looked forlorn. "In order to understand Lord Voldemort, you must understand Tom Riddle first. Tom Riddle didn't become Lord Voldemort without a reason, Harry, and Lord Voldemort is not Tom Riddle."

Harry tightened his lips into a straight white line. "Then, what's so different about them? Why are you saying that Tom Riddle isn't Lord Voldemort?"

"Tom Riddle, above everyone else in this world, knew what is love, Harry. He knew love and Lord Voldemort could not."

"Because of his corrupted soul, sir?"

"Yes, Harry." The headmaster turned his head away to look at the large window with the view of the Forbidden Forest. "Tom Riddle has always been inclined to the Dark Arts but his soul wasn't corrupted, not like Lord Voldemort. That is the difference between them." He returned his gaze to him. "Tell me, Harry, why do you keep on fighting Lord Voldemort?"

The question didn't shock Harry this time. "For my parents," he answered. "I wanted justice for their deaths."

"What else, Harry?"

Harry hummed. "For my friends," he answered after a brief moment of contemplative silence. "For the Wizarding World. I want to stop the bloodshed. I don't want anymore deaths to happen. I don't want children to lose their family like me."

"And tell me, Harry, why did Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort?"

Harry blinked, stunned. "He wanted power, sir."

To his surprise, the headmaster shook his head. "No, Harry. Tom Riddle might want to control, yes, but he didn't become Lord Voldemort because of power."

More confused than ever, Harry asked, "Then why did he became Lord Voldemort, Headmaster?"

His face was blank but his eyes delivered the pain inside of him. "Love, Harry. Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort because of love."

**A/N: Hello, everyone! And welcome old and new readers!**

**I consider this a Spin Off of Just A Smile considering that the Hermione in JAS would be featured here as well and it has nearly the same concept. _Nearly_. It's still going to be different — yes, that also includes Hermione although not by much, I promise. For one thing, Tom isn't as adorable as James in JAS. Though knowing Tom, he'd probably challenge that statement.**

**I only have four chapters written for this story and the length is the same as JAS (one-shot, drabble like). The second chapter won't be published for a few days, I think. Never fear since once I publish the second chapter, it would have the same schedule as JAS: meaning every day there are new chapters. Granted if I'm not busy with schoolwork by that time.**

**Anyway, tell me what you think! Reviews are welcomed!**

**~ NR xx**


	2. July 31, 1937 — Summer Before First Year

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Just to clear any confusion, when I said that the Hermione in JAS is featured here, I meant that the Hermione in here would have the same characteristics and background as the one in JAS as well. Meaning: she's not a time traveller, she's born in this era, she's innocent and naïve but she has qualities that is different from the Hermione in JAS as well. Harry's mother is Lily in this story; I think that the first indication of that is when I described him to have green eyes.**

**I'm sorry if I didn't make it clear but I hope it does now! I should've specified more. Lol. ~ NR xx**

**Chapter Two**

**_June 31, 1937 — The Summer Before First Year_**

There was a middle aged man with long auburn beard littered with silver strands talking to Mrs. Cole. He was wearing a purple suit and carrying a brown suitcase. Tom had seen him walking down the street from the window of his room and knew that the middle aged man was there for him when Mrs. Cole greeted him with a voice that was filtered with anticipation and anxiety. Tom sat down on his bed and waited patiently for them to arrive. He heard their steps down the hall growing closer until the sound halted in front of his closed door. He looked out of the window as soon as the door creaked open, his nose wrinkling at the grating sound.

"Tom, you have a visitor," Mrs. Cole said, her voice suggesting that she would rather be somewhere else than there.

Tom slowly craned his neck and looked at them. First at Mrs. Cole — who fidgeted when his vibrant violet eyes met hers — and then to the middle aged man. The man had a kind face with a patient, fatherly smile etched on his lips and a soft, gentle look in his eyes. The purple suit was more hideous up close, nearly blinding if one was to stare intently. It was no wonder why the majority of the people he encountered down the street earlier were eyeing him strangely.

Everything in him, from his face to his posture, screamed good and trustworthy but Tom knew better than to trust it. People with that kind of presence usually had something to hide. In this world, nothing remained unscathed and everything was tainted, even the ones who appeared to be good. He didn't believe the image the man was trying to pass. In fact, he grew even more wary. People with an air of goodness around them usually had a reason why they were projecting the image of noble intentions. Most of the time, those intentions weren't noble at all.

He heard a creak on the floorboards and Tom's eyes flickered as his gaze went to a small person standing in the middle of Mrs. Cole and the middle agred man. He was surprised when he saw a little girl clinging to the purple pants of the middle aged man. He hadn't noticed her coming with the middle aged man earlier and he certainly hadn't heard a third set of footsteps when they were coming to his room.

It surprised him because he was normally so observant than most people that he knew so him missing the little girl's presence when she came with the man was confounding. He wondered, as she continued gazing at him with a curiosity befitting a small child, if he'd simply been too distracted by the purple suit of the man to the point that he hadn't seen her coming with him.

"I'll leave you to him," said Mrs. Cole, her lips pinched as though she tasted something foul. She quickly left before any of them could reply, leaving the door open. She didn't spare the little girl a glance as she went past her, which was odd.

As soon as Mrs. Cole left, the little girl stepped out behind of the middle aged man's back although not by much since her other hand was still holding on to his pants. Tom took the time to study her: she was either younger or in the same age as he was though he couldn't be sure because she was small. She was wearing a blue dress with long sleeves and frills, white tights, and shiny black shoes that made her resemble a living doll. Her wild and curly voluminous hair was chocolate brown that reached past her shoulders to the middle of her back and her honey brown eyes were large and doe-like, betraying her innocence.

One thing that took most of Tom's attention was the staff that she was holding that had a carved lion roaring on the top, a red orb placed inside its open mouth. It was taller than her by a foot and a half and she was leaning heavily against it despite her grasp on the middle aged man's pants. When she caught his gaze on her, it seemed to fluster her as she started to fidget and slowly inch her way back behind the man's back, trying not to alert him with her movements which she immediately failed at doing.

Tom removed his gaze from the girl to settle it on the only adult in the room. "Who are you?" He queried in the same detached tone that he used whenever he was addressing someone he didn't trust. Normally that was around adults and strangers.

Adults were as easy to scare as children but less stupid because their sense of awareness were sharper, keener, and more attuned to their survival instincts. It was one of the reasons why he wasn't chosen for adoption even though he was the most beautiful child in the orphanage — he heard one couple said that three years ago but they left with a three years old boy in their arms instead. Adults sensed something different about him, something unwanted and wrong, and that made them want to stay away from him. That was fine enough for Tom. He didn't want two adults pretending to be his family in an attempt to make themselves feel better. He'd rather be alone.

The problem was deliberately threatening and scaring them. Adults had more authority than children. They might smile and assure that you're going to be safe but if they witnessed you doing one wrong move, they'd take actions and quickly eliminate the problem. That's why Tom was always so careful around Mrs. Cole's hawk-like eyes. He never did anything when he was in her line of vision, maintaining the image of a cold but perfectly harmless orphan boy. She was wary of him but she could never do anything because as far as she could see, he was innocent.

That's why Tom was suspicious of the man in front of him, no matter how kindly he smiled at him. This man couldn't be good if Mrs. Cole left him with him in the same room. But he had been careful. If the caretaker of Wool's Orphanage finally took actions, despite the lack of evidences, there must be something wrong.

"Hello, Tom," the middle aged man said in a smooth voice. "My name is Professor Albus Dumbledore."

"You're not a professor," said Tom with a firm finality in his voice. He kept his panic at bay and well-hidden behind a constructive blank mask. "You're one of them. You're a doctor. You're here to take me away, aren't you?"

Professor Dumbledore's eyebrows furrowed and he slowly shook his head. "No, Tom. I'm not here to take you away and I'm also not a doctor. I really am a professor."

"Then why are you here then?" Tom demanded, eyes hard as he compelled him to tell the truth. "Why are you here if you're not going to take me away? And don't lie. I can tell when people are lying to me."

The professor seemed unfazed by his severe expression but Tom spotted the twitch in his eyebrows, a reaction that meant he wasn't as affected as he made it out to be. "Because I am not just an ordinary professor. I am a wizard and you are as well, Tom. I'm here to tell you that you've been accepted to our school. It is one of the most prestigious school in Britain called Hogwarts Academy, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Magic is real and it is inside of us. It's inside of you as well."

Fascinated, Tom's eyes widened. Something inside of him stirred and boiled like magma rising above the mouth of the volcano. That feeling was familiar and had been with him for as long as he could remember. Tom was certain he'd been born with it and he welcomed it like a long lost friend. The most curious thing was that it called to the man in front of him and more so to the little girl beside him. It was as though something inside of him wanted to reach out to the both of them but Tom quickly bottled it down. The last time his power wanted to reach out, it ended up with a snake bite on one of the kids.

"Prove it," Tom whispered but the challenge in his tone was clear and unmistakable.

Albus leaned his head closer, his eyebrows rising. "You can see her, can't you?" He turned his head to the little girl.

Tom's eyebrows furrowed and he looked at the little girl before looking back at him. "Of course I can," he said, anger simmering in his voice. "Do you think that I'm stupid?"

"I'm not saying that you are, Tom," Albus calmly stated to the boy in front of him. "But isn't it a curious thing that Mrs. Cole hadn't looked at her once? Isn't it curious that you haven't seen her when you saw me walking down the street?"

Tom's expression was dark as he glared at the professor. "Are you playing with me? I'll tell you now to stop. I don't like you making a fool out of myself. I can do things to people. Even bad things. Hurtful things."

There was no fear in the professor's eyes but there was a touch of wariness that wasn't there before the longer he listened to his threat. "I'm not making a fool out of you, Tom," he said, as calm as ever. "You see, I had casted a spell on the girl that prevents anyone from seeing her. It's a very advanced spell called the Disillusionment charm and it makes her disappear and blend in her surroundings. There's also another charm called Notice-Me-Not but it mostly works in crowded places. That is why you haven't seen her when she was walking with me outside. But you can see her here despite that her Disillusionment charm is still intact and that is a testament of your power. Amazing, really."

He eyed him critically before finally relaxing when he didn't detect any falsehood from the professor's statements and voice. He looked at the bushy haired girl with more interest. So, that was why he hadn't seen her or heard her footsteps earlier. He frowned. But he still felt unconvinced and unsatisfied. He needed something more, more proof that magic and wizards existed. That he wasn't alone.

"What else?" He asked impatiently. "What more can you do? Is that all?"

"Eager, aren't we?" The professor chuckled.

Tom tightened his lips and was about to respond when his closet suddenly bursted into flames and his eyes widened, his heart pounding hard against his chest when he saw that the flames didn't spread, it only engulfed the closet. Something inside of him flared in response to the flames, to the magic clearly displayed in front of him. It rejoiced and wanted to dance with the flames, to brighten it until it reached the ceiling and the entire room. It wanted the flames to spread.

Tom fantasized burning the whole orphanage down and the power — the magic — inside of him reacted as though it was agreeing with him.

"There's something inside," a soft voice, so unlike the professor's, spoke and Tom looked over at the little girl to find that she was staring intently at the closet.

"Yes," agreed the professor with a quiet voice. "There is something inside. Tom?"

Tom felt something cold dripped down his spine slowly like slime. The professor turned to him and there wasn't anything kind on his face this time. A sinking feeling, akin to the size of the Titanic, weighed on his chest and made it difficult for him to breathe.

He didn't know, did he? He couldn't possibly know or could he?

"Why don't you open the closet and reveal to us what is inside?" He asked gently.

Tom slowly rose to his feet and went to the still burning closet, his arms and legs stiff. He glanced at the professor and then at the little girl who were waiting for him before turning to the closet. He slowly opened it to reveal the small box underneath the little clothes that he had hanging above. The inside of the closet remained untouched by the flames but he didn't have the time to marvel at such magic as he took the box — which was cold to touch — and faced them. Dread coiled in his stomach but he remained silent and still.

If they knew, would they reject him? Would they throw away his potential to become a wizard? Would they refuse to teach him how to do magic and forget about him? Leave him in the orphanage as someone who's ordinary?

His grip on the box tightened.

Albus frowned when he saw the contents inside the box. "Thievery is prohibited in Hogwarts," he said sternly at Tom. "I expect that you return them to their owners by the time you get to the school."

Tom nodded stiffly, relieved that they weren't rejecting him but angry that he had to give up his possessions, his trophies, in order to do so. He had collected the contents inside the box for four years and he was about to throw them away. At least, he thought to himself, at least they were still going to accept him. The little girl eyed him with a strange expression on her face that he couldn't name. He ignored her, choosing to stare up at the only adult in the room instead.

"Very well, Tom." A soft smile stretched his lips. He pulled something from his pocket and when he held it out, Tom saw that it was a letter. "Here is your admittance letter. It has all of the school requirements listed there."

Tom, grateful that he wasn't in trouble, immediately took the letter from his grasp and clutched it tightly in his fist as though he was afraid it would be taken away. "What about money, sir?" He questioned.

"You need not worry. The school will provide the money for your education," assured the professor. "We will come back here at the twenty first of August to take you to Diagon Alley. That's where we will buy your school supplies. We will see you soon. Welcome to Hogwarts, Tom Riddle."

Tom nodded, watching as the professor turned on his heel and started to leave. The little girl, however, wasn't following after her father. She continued staring at him. He turned to her, eyebrows drawn and eyes dark.

"What are you still doing here?" He demanded.

At his question, the little girl moved towards him. Tom discovered the use of her staff when he saw that she was limping, using the staff to accommodate her useless left leg. Her movements were slow, agonizingly so, but she finally stood in front of him after five careful steps. Tom eyed her warily when she opened her palm to him.

He looked at her palm and his confusion was replaced with wonder when something bloomed inside her palm and slowly took shape of a small flower. It was a white tulip but it lacked the green stem as though someone had cut it.

"A gift," she said, an answer to the confusion on his face.

"A gift?" Tom frowned, thinking that she must've felt sorry for him after witnessing him getting scolded by her father for being a thief.

"Yes, a gift." She tilted her head, gaze darting away from his eyes. Tom wasn't sure why she was acting shy now when she was the one who first approached him. "Please, take it."

Still, he continued frowning. "Why? What do you want from me?"

She peered at him through her eyelashes, amused by his response. "I don't want anything from you. I think you've mistaken a gift for a bargaining chip." When it looked as though he wasn't taking it, she lowered it on the table beside them instead.

Tom watched her. "Why are you doing this?"

"You're a wizard now, Tom," she said, turning her gaze to his, a serious expression replacing her demure one. "You're special just like us. You're a part of us. Isn't that exciting? Knowing that the power inside of you is there for a reason? That you're not alone after all these years? You don't have to hide yourself anymore. You have the chance to grow and make something for yourself outside of these walls. I think you deserve a gift, a reminder of this day to remember when you're older."

She turned, limping towards the door, missing Tom's stunned expression. He looked at the innocent flower sitting on his desk and then at the girl that had gifted it to him. He had never received a gift that wasn't made out of pity or because they wanted an exchange. And her gift was made out of magic, which made it more extraordinary. It was a thing beyond compare and she made it for him. The most curious thing was that she didn't appear to want anything in return from him. She did it out of the goodness of her heart.

This was the truest act of kindness that he had ever experienced before and it felt strange.

"What's your name?" The question that came out of his mouth was unbidden.

She looked at him over her shoulder, wild chocolate curls cascading down her back. A small smile graced her lips, lifting her chubby cheeks to make it appear as though her eyes were smiling as well. It revealed the two larger teeth poking in the front of her mouth. It made her look like a hybrid of a mouse and a beaver. She lifted her hand and brushed her a loose curly strand back from her face, her actions hesitant and modest. It was unlike the other girls in the orphanage who were too unruly for their own good.

"It's Hermione," she said quietly. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

When she left, the closet was no longer burning.

**A/N: Tom's voice is harder to grasp than I thought. I had a hard time writing this. Despite being eleven, I think I made him sound more like 30 or something. What was I thinking when I was doing this? I knew I shouldn't have let Tom take Hermione away. Dammit.**

**Reviews are welcomed!**

**~ NR xx**


	3. September 19, 1996 — Present Time II

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**I just want to ask a favor from you guys to withhold the speculations until the end of this book. I know I threw a curveball at you with the ending in JAS but this is an entirely different storyline than that and with an entirely different pair. I'll spoil you and say that there's a reason for everything and whatever Harry says are just theories and speculations as well. There are twists and turns in this fic. But it's just the third chapter guys, we're not in the end yet. Why don't you enjoy the ride and watch this story unfold?**

**I won't say that this story would have a bittersweet ending but it will have the ending that this pair deserves. Thank you ~ NR xx**

**Chapter Three**

**_September 19, 1996 — Present Time_**

Harry gaped at the old man across him. "Love?" He repeated incredulously. "But— but he's incapable of love, Headmaster!"

Harry felt as though the world was shifting underneath his feet and while he was aware of the shift, he remained unmoved. He came there that night to ask about Lord Voldemort because he wanted to know the enemy, to know his weak spots and how to defeat him, but he had gotten more in return. The revelation that Lord Voldemort had killed, murdered, and taken away families from children because of love was something that he couldn't comprehend. What kind of sick man would do that, would use love in the most awful way?

"No, Harry. Tom is capable of love and because of love, he had been made into Lord Voldemort."

Harry shook his head. "But it can't be—" His protest ceased as a memory from the past resurfaced in his mind.

_'I would be the greatest wizard in the whole world and, then, she would finally be with me again!'_

His chest hitched as the seventeen years old voice of Tom Marvolo Riddle echoed in his mind. He had never noticed what he had said before, too busy trying to think of a way to escape and to save his best friend's younger sister, but he was certain that Tom had spoken that to him now that he was recalling the memory again.

It stunned him that Lord Voldemort, the most feared and darkest wizard in the Wizarding World, had known love before and had felt it. Someone evil and foul, who murdered and tortured people, should never know what it felt like. But, apparently, Tom did and he did so fiercely. Otherwise, the preserved memory of the seventeen years old boy claiming to see his love again would never do half of the things his alter ego did now if he didn't feel so passionately for a girl.

It felt weird thinking about Lord Voldemort's love life, of all things.

The headmaster filled the silence with his unusually solemn voice. "You said to me a while ago that you would do everything to save your loved ones, Harry."

Harry gulped, his mouth suddenly dry. "Yes, sir," he said quietly.

Albus nodded solemnly. "This is another example of everything, Harry. Because of his loved one, his only loved one, he started a war for her."

"But why, sir?" What kind of girl would want a war to start for her?

Harry had never seen the headmaster's smile appearing so bitter until now. "Because he had known love and had lost it. This war started because of an angry man, grieving and mourning for that lost love."

_"You will never know love or friendship," _Harry remembered saying to him that night in the Ministry. _"And I feel sorry for you."_

Voldemort had looked at him in the eyes, his own were red pools brimming with insanity, anger and something else that Harry hadn't caught. He was too distracted trying to banish his attempt of possession and he didn't pause to think, to decipher that unknown emotion. He just wanted him gone.

_"You're a fool, Harry Potter,"_ Voldemort had uttered quietly to him before he disappeared without a trace.

Harry had been certain at that time that Voldemort meant he was a fool for believing in love and in friendship, but it seemed that he meant something different. Maybe Voldemort meant that he was a fool for not knowing the truth about him and the girl who he would wage a war for, that the Boy Who Lived believed that he was incapable of feeling.

Harry clenched his jaw. "Who was she, sir?"

The headmaster's eyes flickered with silent agony and it Harry paused when he saw it. Why did the girl that Tom had lost seemed to cause such a reaction from the headmaster?

"She was—" His throat moved and he looked away. "She was as wondrous and as beautiful as magic."

Harry wondered if it wasn't only Tom who had lost his love but if it was also the headmaster as well.

"Where is she now?" His voice was gentle as he asked that question.

The headmaster released a stuttered breath out of his mouth. "She is... not here," he struggled to answer. "She is not here anymore."

Harry now understood what he meant when Tom had lost her and why he went and started a war. For her. For love. He felt the same way about his parents. He would go to war for them but, unlike Tom who started the war, he would be the one to end it. For the people who loved him and then died for him. For the sacrifice of his godfather. For his parents. For the love of his mother.

"And now the world must suffer for it," continued Albus gravely. "Just as he continues to suffer for her loss as well."

He wondered if Tom had lost her because of the darkness inside of him, if she couldn't handle watching him destroy himself, or maybe she didn't love him the same way Tom did and he killed her in the end. Maybe that was why he went mad and was broken beyond repair. Maybe he was responsible for her death and it tore him apart.

It didn't excuse his actions. It didn't change the fact that he killed the first chance he got and that he murdered innocents, even his own blood, but Harry felt sorry for Tom Riddle, for the brilliant boy who turned himself into a monster, and in a way, it also made him feel sorry for Voldemort, for losing himself after he had lost the most important person in his life.

Harry didn't know what to make of that.


	4. September 1, 1937 — First Year

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Four**

**_September 1, 1937 — First Year_**

"Excuse me, have you seen a toad here?"

Tom looked up from his book to stare at the chubby boy by the door who looked nervously at him as he waited for his response. Feeling displeased by his interruption and in need of an entertainment, Tom took the time to close his book and made himself appear as though he was thinking deeply. From an outsider's perspective, they would've thought that he was scouring through his mind, trying to remember. They would have no clue that he was merely playing with him.

The chubby boy tugged at the hem of his robes, brown eyes widening and his teeth nibbling on his lip as he waited in anticipation. He looked as though he was going to faint if he wasn't given an answer soon which made Tom smirk inwardly.

After watching him squirm for a few seconds, enjoying his discomfort and the power that he had over the boy, Tom finally answered to end his misery. "No."

"A-are you sure—?"

"Yes," he bit out, eyes flashing irritably. "Get out."

The chubby boy squeaked and immediately left, the door sliding close behind him. Tom smiled to himself and reopened his book, glad that he was now alone in the compartment, when he heard the door sliding open once again.

"Can I seat here? All the other compartments are full—"

He didn't look up this time when he answered. "No."

"Oh."

The door slid close and Tom sighed in relief and continued reading the book. A few moments later, the door slid open and Tom had enough, his temper flaring at being disturbed for the third time.

"Excuse me—"

He slammed his book shut and barked out, "I told you I haven't seen a toad—"

He stopped when his gaze rose.

Hermione's eyes were wide as she stared at him, most probably shocked that he had shouted at her for no reason. Tom pressed his lips together and there was a few minutes of uncomfortable silence when he didn't speak or utter an apology to her. For the first time in his life — although admittedly short — he found that words had somehow escaped him. He knew that he should apologize for his harsh words, especially since she didn't deserve it, but only thinking about doing such an act made him feel annoyed and aggravated.

He had never apologized when he had hung Billy Stubbs' rabbit on the rafters and he certainly didn't feel guilty when he had lured two children in the cave that was full of snakes. So why would he start apologizing and feeling guilty now? And for a girl he had met only once in his life, no less. For one thing, he didn't want to apologize and he didn't feel guilty. Feeling guilty meant that he had done something wrong but he hadn't done so. If they weren't disturbing him in the first place, he wouldn't have snapped. If she was waiting for an apology to happen then she would wait for a very long time.

It was not like they were friends. They weren't friends — Tom didn't have friends and he certainly didn't need one. From what he had observed, pople had friends because they wanted to avoid loneliness and the daunting solitude. Humans were normally sociable creatures and they craved interpersonal relationships, fearing the idea of being alone. In his opinion, friendship was just another fancier term of using people for their own personal gain but its intentions was hidden behind false loyalty and trust. Friends were spies that were really foes, using your secrets and desires as a weapon wielded against you. Tom didn't survive in the orphanage by having friends and he wasn't going to start having one now.

A memory of a perfect and fresh white tulip sitting innocently inside a box shoved in his closet suddenly flashed in his mind and Tom promptly dismissed it.

It was Hermione, finally, who broke the silence between them.

"I'm sorry," she said, appearing sheepish. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I just wanted to ask if you liked the book."

Tom frowned and looked at the cover of the book: _Hogwarts, A History_. It was the only book he had that wasn't part of the Hogwarts list of requirements. It was a gift from Professor Albus Dumbledore when they went to Diagon Alley. Hermione hadn't been there to accompany them that time, the professor citing that she felt unwell.

_"A gift from a friend,"_ the professor had said to him with a twinkle in his eyes after he purchased the book with his own money.

He wondered, not for the first time, if Hermione had told him to buy the book for him.

"I like it enough," Tom answered casually, lifting his head to gaze at her.

She smiled softly. "I'm glad."

Her smile made him even more uneasy. There was no malice and no falsehood. It wasn't the same as the rest of the kids in the orphanage who didn't smile at him at all. It wasn't the same as having Mrs. Cole smile at him and looking uncomfortable while doing it. It wasn't the same as the visiting couples who were nervous and anxious when they meet him, only to smile disappointedly in the end. It wasn't the same as Professor Albus Dumbledore who smiled to hide his true intentions. However, she was smiling at him... for him.

Tom didn't know how he came into that conclusion and it unnerved him.

"What are you doing here?" Tom demanded, sighing that he wouldn't get to finish his book although he had read it for five times already, sixth today. "Did you came here just to ask for a book?"

She tugged at a lock of her hair, her other hand gripping the staff of the lion. "I saw you while I was walking down the corridor. I thought that I would come to visit you. I wanted to see you and ask how you've been."

"You've seen me now," he said with a roll of his eyes, "and I assure you that I'm well. Now can you leave me alone to finish my book?"

Her eyes seemed to soften and Tom had the childish urge to scream at her just to make her go away. He didn't know why but he wanted her to go away. He wanted her to leave him alone for the rest of his life. He didn't want her there anymore. He didn't want to see her again. She was too much like a Hufflepuff, all smiling and undeterred by calloused words. It was simply frustrating.

"You look nice," she noted casually, eyeing his polished shoes, his neatly combed hair and his immaculate second hand robes. "Really nice."

"Right," Tom clipped, frowning. He knew that he had put efforts in his appearance in order to get a good first impression. He tapped an impatient finger on the spine of his book. "Is that all?"

"Alright," she said, smiling as though he had said something funny. She started to turn away. "Enjoy your book, Tom."

His nose twitched when she spoke his name — without permission — but instead of voicing this observation aloud and making her stop, he only gave her a curt nod, watching as she went away, limping more than usual. He released a huge breath and sat back down on his seat, patting his neatly combed hair as though his encounter with the little girl had disturbed it.

The door opened again. "Excuse me, have you seen—"

"Oh, for the love of—!"

The door slammed shut as his magic flared. Tom ignored the yelp from the other side of the door, determined to enjoy his book for the rest of the ride. No one would interrupt him now.


	5. Pensieve Memories No 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Five**

**_Pensieve Memories No. 1 (Source: A. P. W. B. Dumbledore) — The Sorting Ceremony of 1937_**

There was a little bushy haired girl standing in front of the crowd, leaning against her lion staff. Professor Albus Dumbledore, sitting to the right of Headmaster Armando Dippet, smiled once their eyes met. Both of their eyes — one pair was the exact shade of the sky in a sunny day and the other was sweet and freshly taken honey — twinkled in the soft glow of the thousands of candles floating in the air. Albus' gaze drifted to her hair and he couldn't help but feel amused that the braid he painstakingly tied her hair into that morning was gone. Her hair was now unbound, falling unruly down her shoulders and spine.

"AVERY, ARIS!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

The ribbon must've snapped off again, Albus thought, chuckling to himself. Untamed, so much like herself.

"BONES, SAMUEL!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Hermione seems to be doing well," Headmaster Dippet commented as he watched the little girl waiting for her name to be called. "I still don't know why she insisted to ride in the Hogwarts Express than to wait here in the castle."

Albus turned to the headmaster, his eyes still twinkling. "She said that she didn't want to cheat. She wanted to greet her future classmates the proper way."

"CARROW, ARTHUR!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

Headmaster Dippet frowned in concern. "But her leg, Albus."

"We appreciate your concern, Armando," Albus said gently to placate the old man. "Hermione had assured me that she would behave and she would rest her leg once it's hurting again."

"DAGWORTH, HOWARD!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

"And you believe her?" The headmaster chuckled.

Albus shared his mirth. "No," he said. "No, I don't."

"DUMBLEDORE, HERMIONE!"

Albus immediately returned his attention to the sorting that Professor Merrythought was conducting, watching as his little girl limp towards where the Sorting Hat was waiting for her. She gave him a wide smile that exposed her two large teeth — his favorite smile so far — before she turned her back and sat on the stool. The half of her head was concealed when Professor Merrythought dropped the hat on her head.

"I bet she's going to be a Ravenclaw," Headmaster Dippet whispered to him.

"Gryffindor," Albus argued. "Have you forgotten that she's my daughter, Armando?"

"Ah, how could I? She put slugs in my tea one time." Instead of looking put out, Headmaster Dippet seemed to be delighted by it. "Like father, like daughter. You two are both mischievous. But I still stand by what I said. She's a Ravenclaw."

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Albus stood up to his feet and clapped as loudly as the Gryffindor house cheered. He nodded his head in approval at Septimus Weasley, a fifth year Prefect, when he helped her to the Gryffindor table.

"What was that again, Armando?" Albus turned to the headmaster, chuckling when he saw that he was pouting.

"I could've sworn that she'd choose Ravenclaw just to spite you," Headmaster Dippet remarked as Albus went back to his seat.

"I don't think she hadn't thought of that," Albus said, watching as his daughter got acquainted with her housemates. "But she's a Gryffindor at heart, Armando, and the Sorting is a very serious business."

"Indeed. Let's drink to that, Albus." The headmaster chuckled, lifting his goblet of wine to the direction of the little girl. "To our newly sorted lioness."

Their goblets clicked and Albus turned to his daughter who looked at him and flashed him a smile that lit up her eyes.

"Congratulations," he mouthed at her.

Beaming, she mouthed back, "I love you."

His blus eyes twinkled even more.

He watched the Sorting Ceremony, clapping his hands whenever someone was sorted into his house and occasionally checking his daughter's progress in the Gryffindor table. Sometimes, he would see her talking with the higher years, the ones who she talked and befriended when she wasn't a student yet, but she would also conversed with her fellow first years. Albus was relieved that she seemed to be doing rather well and that her leg hadn't given her any problems. It might also be because she was a Dumbledore, his daughter, that helped her along with the process of socializing.

"POTTER, FLEAMONT!"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

He smiled as the messy haired brunet chose the seat right next to his daughter, where they immediately strike a conversation. The boy was gesturing and flinging his hands wildly in the air and the first years were wide eyed and looking nervous. Hermione was as calm as ever, the corner of her lips tipped up as she regarded the Potter boy with amusement.

"RIDDLE, TOM!"

Albus turned to the Sorting and saw the orphan boy he had met the thirty first of July. Unlike the first years, who were eyeing the castle with awe and anxiety, Tom was apathetic. He didn't seem to find joy and amusement in the ghosts or the sky that was in the Great Hall. He didn't rush to the stool; he sauntered and took his time. When he sat, he looked like a king watching over those who served him.

Albus was reminded of another boy from another time, with blond hair and ice blue eyes that glittered wih amusement all the time, and his eyebrows furrowed.

"SLYTHERIN!"

He didn't deny that the announcement twisted his stomach and squeezed his chest.


	6. September 16, 1937 — First Year

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Six**

**_September 16, 1937 — First Year_**

He was sorted into the house of the most cunning and ambitious known as Slytherin and he thought that it was fitting. He certainly had ambitions and he was cunning enough not to get caught. As for Hermione Dumbledore, she was a Gryffindor and he had only seen her in the Great Hall and in the few classes they shared. Slytherins mostly had classes with the Ravenclaws — no Hufflepuffs, thank Merlin — and the only classes that they had with Gryffindors were Herbology and History of Magic.

They rarely talked although she would smile at him once their eyes met. Sometimes she would wave her hand at him when their eye contact lingered. However, instead of responding, he would only turn his head away, pretending that he hadn't seen her.

Tom had heard from the others and from the professors that Hermione was smart, though. She was rumored to be as brilliant as her father, Albus Dumbledore himself, and the both of them were two of the smartest students in their year. However, Tom knew that if he wanted to stay on top, he should study hard and kick her out of the spot. So, he studied diligently and earned points as much as he could, sucking up to the gullible Potions Professor and Head of House Slytherin named Horace Slughorn, along with many others. He charmed the professors — Dumbledore notwithstanding —with his polite smiles, vast intellect, and his carefully constructed humble persona. He knew that by the time school ended, he would have them eating out of his palm.

Unlike Hermione, who everyone wanted to know and befriend because of her father who was famous for discovering the Twelve Uses of Dragon Blood, Tom worked hard to earn their respect.

And they did start to respect him and recognize his talents. They loved him even.

Aside from the ones in his own house though.

Tom hissed as he moved his aching shoulder, gritting his teeth to stop his groan of pain. He could feel the blood seeping through the fabric of his robes and he wondered how he could wash the blood stains later. He had never washed blood from fabric before and he didn't know any cleaning charms that wouldn't damage his robes. Household charms were a curriculum for girls in the school and he very well didn't want to ask a female student how to get rid blood stains. They would probably scream before he finished his sentence.

Avery and his gang, Mulciber, Rosier, and Carrow, had ambushed him earlier on his way back to the dorms after spending the entire afternoon in the library. It seemed that they were displeased that the Mudblood of Slytherin was a lot smarter and more powerful than them and proceeded to teach him a lesson. Ever since they had found out that his name, Riddle, wasn't a pureblood one, his house had done everything in their power to ensure that he was unwanted. They had started by calling him a mudblood which steadily grew into hexes and jinxes then into curses. In result, Tom spent more time in the library, learning and casting defensive spells in the hidden alcove at the back.

Tom knew that he gave as good as he got. He was certain that his hex had hit Avery. However, Rosier had cut him with a Diffindo spell on his right shoulder and Tom was unable to dodge it because he was busy fighting off Mulciber. Once they drew blood, they quickly left, satisfied with themselves for injuring him. The entire thing was a power play between him and the purebloods. Who would break first? Him or them? One of these days, they would draw a winner and Tom was determined that he would emerge as the victor. His pride demanded it.

He was now on his way to the Hospital Wing, making a mental note to study healing spells next time he went to the library as his shoulder bled. The doors to the Hospital Wing was open and he went in without knocking. He frowned when he saw the empty room — or seemingly empty room until the curtains to a cot to his left opened and he nearly jumped, startled when he saw Hermione. She appeared just as surprise as she was but she quickly recovered much faster than he did.

"Hello, Tom," she said, cocking her head to the side. "What are you doing here?"

Tom stared at her, eyes narrowed. "Are you following me?"

His nose wrinkled when she suddenly laughed. "I was here before you were, Tom," she pointed out.

Tom looked away, clearing his throat. "I need Madame Rosemary," he said through gritted teeth.

"She's at Professor Slughorn's office to take a couple of potions," she said, staring intently at him. "Why? Is there something wrong?"

"Why do you think I need the Mediwitch if there's nothing wrong?" He snapped when he felt his shoulder flaring in pain.

"You're hurt," she remarked, slipping off the cot and grabbing her lion staff. She eyed the spot where the blood had darkened his robes. "What happened?"

Tom didn't know why he stayed rooted in place when she headed towards him with her eyebrows knitted in worry. He could've turned on his heel and stormed off. She couldn't follow after him when he was faster than her. But he didn't move and he certainly didn't leave. He just scrutinized the worry written on her face and knew that it was genuine.

Out of all the fake people in the world, he had found the first person who was as real as the water in the ocean and as bright as the sun.

"What happened, Tom?"

Her question snapped him out of his thoughts and he took a step back when her hand reached out to his bleeding shoulders. She paused at his abrupt movement, her hand slowly retracting to fall on her side.

"When will Madame Rosemary come back?" Tom demanded, uncomfortably feeling his blood sliding down his arm.

"Not for a couple of hours," she said, looking apologetic. "Please, seat down, Tom."

He shook his head, aggravated that out of all time, the Mediwitch wasn't there when he needed her the most. It seemed that he had to cast a couple of meager healing charms that he'd only read in books. He frowned inwardly. If he casted the healing charms himself, he would leave a scar on his skin. He had to find something that didn't leave any marks. His skin was already marred enough and he didn't want to start a collection.

He was about to leave but it seemed that Hermione wasn't ready to let him go because she reached for his robes and grabbed him to her. He hissed when his bleeding shoulder was jostled and she winced.

"I'm sorry," she said, softening her hold on him.

"What the—" he pressed his lips together before a curse would escape his mouth. "What was that for?"

"You're hurt," she said, looking into his eyes, "and I want to help you."

"What makes you think that I want your help?" He snarked, his temper sparking because of the pain. He never did respond well when it came to pain.

"You're bleeding, Tom," she said, trying to sound reasonable. "Whether you want it or not, you don't have a choice."

"Why should I trust a First Year?" He retorted. "A First Year who only knows how to levitate a feather?"

He didn't know why he mentioned that. Aside from himself, he heard that she could also cast a feather on her first try. Tom thought that it was an advantage of living with witches and wizards her whole life. Not just mere witches and wizards though but instructors and mentors.

She sighed. "Tom, I live here in this castle. I know healing charms as well as levitating feathers." The corner of her lips rose but it dropped when he didn't smile back. Her grip on his robes tightened and she looked at him earnestly. "Please, let me help."

He stared at her for a moment or two before he sneered. "No, and whatever grand delusions you have of me, keep them to yourself. We're not friends, Dumbledore."

She flinched but recovered from his harsh statement to say brightly, "We aren't. Not yet."

What would it take?!

Frowning and thoroughly annoyed, he pulled his robes from her grasps, turned on his heel, and left immediately, his blood dripping along the way. He might as well use muggle means to stop the bleeding.


	7. September 19, 1996 — Present Time III

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Seven**

**_September 19, 1996 — Present Time_**

"Hey, Ron?"

"Yeah, mate?"

Harry stared at the ceiling. "Can I ask you a question?"

Ron yawned. "Sure, Harry," he uttered groggily.

"Have you ever been in love before?"

He heard Ron's sheets rustling as his redheaded best friend moved in his bed. "What?" He blurted out, sounding fully awake now than five seconds ago. "What kind of question is that? Why are you asking me?"

"I'm just wondering," Harry intoned. "So tell me. Have you ever been in love before? And your mother's cooking doesn't count."

"Sod off." Ron chuckled. "Honestly? I don't know. I like Lavender enough, don't get me wrong but I don't think I love her, you know? I mean, when I think of love, I think of my mum and dad, and Lavender and I don't have that kind of spark like my parents."

"I get you," said Harry, thinking of Arthur and Molly Weasley who, after all these years, were still madly in love with each other. "It's probably why you have a lot of siblings."

"Ugh. Mate, don't put that image in my mind. I think I need to Scourgify my brain."

Harry smiled. "That'd work if you have a brain."

"Prat!"

Harry yelped when he felt Ron's pillow hitting his side before letting out a laugh. "I'm kidding," he said. "Sort of."

"Ha-ha." Ron was quiet for a moment before he spoke. "Why? Are you in love?"

"What?" Harry scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. "No."

Ron snorted. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not," Harry insisted. "I'm not in love or anything."

"Then why were you asking?"

Harry went quiet and flicked his gaze at the ceiling. "I told you that I'm just wondering." A pause. "Do you think that you can love someone so much to the point that you'd want to die for them?"

Ron hummed. "I don't think so. We're too young for that but I'd like to think that with the right girl, maybe I could love her to the point that I'd die for her. Right now, I'd die for my family. Maybe someday I could have that but I'd rather love someone so much that I'd live for her, you know. Dying means letting her go. I'd rather be alive to be with her."

Harry frowned at Ron's answer, turning his head to find the redhead staring at the ceiling in contemplation. He turned his head straight ahead and couldn't help but think if what Ron said could be what motivated Voldemort to keep on living or prevent himself from dying.

Was Voldemort still alive because of her? Was he alive because he was waiting for her to come back to him? Tom had already said to him in his second year that he wanted to reunite with her again but she was already dead. She had moved on to the afterlife while Voldemort hadn't. Wouldn't it be obvious to follow after her in death? Or maybe, just maybe, his theory that Tom killed her was true and him evading death was a punishment — a new form of self-inflicted torture that reminded him everyday that she was gone while he was still alive. He was alive without her, but was it still considered living when your reason for living was gone?

"What about you, Harry?" Ron questioned. "Can you love someone enough to die for them?"

Harry thought of the Weasley family, of Dumbledore's Army, of Remus Lupin, of Sirius Black, of his parents, and answered, "Yes."

Tom once told him that Lord Voldemort was his past, present, and future, but what did that mean for the girl he loved? Where had she fit into his grand plans of world domination? Harry wondered what Tom wanted before he became Lord Voldemort. What would become of him if the girl hadn't died and she stayed and loved him back? Would he ruin her in the end? After all, she had clearly ruined him.

He wondered who she was and what was she like. What did Tom Riddle, the most brilliant boy to ever walk in the halls of Hogwarts next to Albus Dumbledore himself, saw in her? Was she pretty or smart? Was she kind or was she as cruel as Tom? Was she destined to be the Dark Lady or would she have curve Tom's violent tendencies and prevent the birth of Lord Voldemort? Harry couldn't imagine a world where Lord Voldemort wasn't there to cause havoc, where he wasn't marked as the Boy Who Lived, where his parents survived while she was alive.

_"Love is a very dangerous thing, Harry," _Headmaster Albus Dumbledore had said to him earlier as he was about to leave. _"It must be handled with care and caution. Many people take it for granted and there are some who makes a game out of it. However, tread carefully because it could make or break a person. In Tom's case, it had destroyed him."_

Harry shook his head, frowning. What kind of love was that? What kind of love would shatter you to the point of madness?

And what kind of girl would even allow that to happen?


	8. September 17, 1937 — First Year

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Eight**

**_September 17, 1937 — First Year_**

Tom flipped another page, his vibrant violet eyes scanning the words written on the yellow pages for healing charms, ignoring the increasing sting on his right shoulder. He had already bandanged his cut in the muggle way, the only way he knew how, but he wanted it completely healed. Being injured was bothersome because it prevented him from lifting his wand and perfecting his casting. Although the purebloods left him alone for the time being, it angered him that they had injured him in the first place. He vowed, flipping another page with more force than before, that he would curse them once he was healed.

The most obvious thing to do was to return to the Hospital Wing since it was more than likely that Madame Rosemary was there to heal his cut without it scarring. However, he didn't want to return to the Hospital Wing, not when he was certain that the Dumbledore spawn was there waiting for him. He might as well teach himself how to heal his own injuries just in case. Avery and his gang of Purebloods — more like inbred idiots — weren't going away anytime soon since they believed that he was a mudblood.

Tom hummed. He had to take care of that particular rumor soon if he wanted to survive in house Slytherin, house of the rich and the pure.

"I knew I'd find you here."

He slammed the book close as his gaze rose from the pages, immediately glaring at the bushy haired girl in front of him. He should've known that the peace wouldn't last. It seemed that Hermione Dumbledore wanted to stick her nose into his business whether he wanted to or not. She was just as meddlesome as her father. He still hadn't forgiven the professor for making him give up his posessions. Those were his trophies and the professor made him give it back.

"What. Do. You. Want?" He accentuated, his voice a hard edged steele as his anger involuntarily rose at the sight of her.

Hermione seemed uncertain for a moment, probably because of his less than friendly expression, but it wasn't long before determination sparked in her honey eyes. Tom grew wary, knowing that it meant she had found her spine and was about to give him a piece of her Gryffindor courage and spirit. He had seen it enough from the Gryffindor boys who fancied themselves as brave knights and courageous heroes but were really a safety hazard to be around.

She breathed in and said in a rush, "I want to help you."

He knew it.

He abruptly stood up, careful not to move his shoulder much if he didn't wanted to bleed to death. "How many times do I have to tell you?" He hissed at her, his jaw clenched. "I don't need your help!"

"And how many times do I have to remind you?" She countered, taking a step forward using her good leg. "Whether you like it or not, whether you know it or not, you need help. You don't have a choice. Your shoulder is hurting you."

"My health doesn't concern you, Dumbledore," he told her, voice as cold as winter. "If you don't want anything bad to happen to you, leave me alone."

Her eyes flashed and she stubbornly shook her head. "No, I won't leave you alone."

He sneered. "Then I'll be the one who's leaving then."

He planned to leave but it seemed that Hermione was adamant to make him stay. She grabbed his robes, just like the last time, but this time he tried to shake her off. Unfortunately, the abrupt movement and her strong grip had made her drop her lion staff and, without anything to support her weight, she started toppling forward towards him. Caught off guard, he had lost his balance and fell on his back, grunting as his back hit the floor and when Hermione unceremoniously fell on his chest.

"Fuck!" He cursed aloud when her hand landed on his bleeding shoulder and since she had fallen on his chest, her hand pushed against the wound as she tried to move. There was a burning sensation that spread rapidly around the wound that made his eyes pop and made him gasp out in pain. "Fuck! Stop moving!"

"Language!" Hermione admonished breathlessly, lifting her head and wincing when she saw where her hand had landed. She immediately took her hand off. "I'm so sorry."

After releasing a gust of breath now that her hand had relieved his wound, Tom brought his head up to give her a fierce glare. "Is this how you plan to help me? By injuring me further?"

She looked contrite. "I'm sorry," she said, finally managing to sit up on his thighs. "I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry."

"Get off me," he barked out.

Tom was seriously tempted to curse her — shoulder be damned — when she shook her head no. He didn't care if she was a professor's daughter. Once he got to Avery, he was considering on punishing this stupid bint. He tried to prop his elbows to elevate his upper body but he stopped and laid on the ground when a pain like no other ripped through him from his shoulder.

"Do you know what others will think once they see that you're on my lap?" Tom retorted, gesturing lazily at their provocative position. Although he had thought nothing of it, other people would definitely get the wrong idea.

Hermione blushed and ducked her head in embarrassment. Tom thought that it would finally make her go away but to his astonishment and ire, she still didn't move. He gritted his teeth at her apparent stubbornness. He had never met someone who made him want to pull his hair out until this girl sitting on his lap came into his life. He didn't know if it was because she was a stubborn Gryffindor and he was unfortunate enough to slid into her sense of awareness or it was because she seriously had a death wish.

Tom tensed when he saw her stretching her arm out behind her and grabbing the lion staff lying innocently on the floor on his feet. She took it without moving from his lap and the pounding sting on his shoulder meant that he couldn't move away or push her from him. He could feel his blood spreading on the bandages and conceded that, once she finally moved away from him, he definitely had to go to Madame Rosemary right after.

She turned to him and gripped the staff, pointing the carved lion on his shoulder. His question died in his mouth before he could utter it when the red orb in the lion's mouth glowed. He felt the magic coming out of the staff — her magic warming his skin beneath the fabric — and he felt his open cut stitching itself close. He nearly gasped but held it in as he felt her magic soothing his own.

It was warm, reminding him of the time he had sat in front of the fireplace during a particular cold day in winter. It made him remember the good days — the ones where no one in the orphanage bothered him and Mrs. Cole decided to ignore him than regard him with a suspicious air around her. It made him think about the time he discovered the power inside of him when Amy Benson killed his snake and he retaliated by throwing her against the wall and breaking her leg in the process. It made him think about the moment when he learned that he was a wizard, that he was special. It made him feel content and peaceful for the first time in his short life.

As his injury finally healed, the glow of the red orb slowly faded and Tom felt an odd sense of lost when he couldn't feel her magic anymore. He brought a hand up to his shoulder, his mouth went agape when the pain receded and he could no longer feel his blood flowing out of his body. He averted his gaze back to her and found her looking nervously as she gripped her staff with both hands, staring expectantly at him. Her shoulders dropped when she saw his expression though Tom had no idea why because he didn't even know what his face looked like at that moment.

"Are you alright now?" She asked quietly, eyes searching his face.

Tom nodded slowly. "Yes," he uttered, rubbing the spot where the cut was supposed to be.

"That's good." She sounded relieved. She saw him rubbing his shoulder. "Are you still in pain?"

He shook his head. The pain was nothing but an echo.

She started to smile and his gaze focused on the light in her eyes and how everything about her smile whispered its sincerity and kindness. He couldn't detect any hidden intentions, not like her father, and it just made him want to look at her more. She wasn't much to look at. There were certainly other girls who hinted at blossoming into fine and beautiful ladies in the future like the Black cousins: Dorea Black and Walburga Black. She wasn't even a Euphemia Rosier, the prettiest girl in school according to the higher years. Her smile didn't make her prettier, especially with her being bucktoothed, but Tom felt that she could outshine any girl in the room even the pretty ones without trying.

"Tom?" She whispered, her smile suddenly dimming. She looked sad all of the sudden and Tom had the irrational urge to fix it. "I know you think we're not friends, and I— I know that I'm asking too much from you but... I don't want you to get hurt. Please don't get hurt again."

Tom's sure that something in his chest — that he refused to name — had reacted to her request. "And if I do?" His eyebrow rose as he waited for her response.

He still didn't know why he wasn't pushing her away from him.

Hermione seemed to be thinking of an answer. When she found the right one, she grinned at him, sadness mingling in her eyes. "Then, I'll be here to heal you again. Just like this."

When she touched his cheek, a soft and gentle foreign touch that made him forget to breathe and just stare unflinchingly into her honey brown eyes, some part of him wondered if maybe he knew somehow. As he felt the heat of her palm on his cheek and smelled the sweet scent of tulips, parchments, and old books on her wrist, he wondered if the reason he wanted to stay away from her, wanted her to stay away from him, wanted to push her so far away where he couldn't see her was because some part of him knew that this girl was dangerous. So dangerous because she had gotten into his skin, buried deep until her very essence reached his bones. He didn't think that he could get her out, no matter how much he wanted to.

"You're much more nice looking when you're not glaring at me," she said softly, her hand still on his cheek, a chuckle vibrating on her chest.

Tom scowled. "You're too much stubborn for your own good." He could feel her palm as his lips moved. "It's no wonder why I'm glaring at you all the time, especially since you're treating me like I'm weak."

"But I don't think you're weak," she argued. "I don't think you're incapable of taking care of yourself. I don't even think you're inadequate since you are on the top right next to me. I just... I want to help you, Tom. I can't handle knowing that you've been hurt and I have the chance to heal you. I can't just leave you when I can help and that I want to. If not me, then who?"

"I don't need help," Tom seethed. He hated repeating himself. "And I especially don't want your pity."

She shook her head. "I don't pity you, Tom. I pity those who don't see you, because..." She paused.

Tom waited. From the moment she had given him the white tulip to this very moment where she had healed his cut, maybe he knew all along that it would come down to this but didn't want to acknowledge it.

She peered into his violet eyes, gaze earnest and unguarded — as though she absolutely had nothing to hide from him, as though she trusted him enough to keep her secrets although he had no idea why. He didn't think that she was the kind of person that was capable of lying but he also thought she was not a person who shared easily. He had seen her with her Gryffindor friends and although it seemed that she was the center of attention, she still kept them at arm's length. Why she was looking at him like that, though, Tom had no clue why.

Reading people usually came so easy to Tom. Humans were very predictable no matter what other people thought. They lived by their routines and their rituals and usually gravitated towards the activities that they were familiar with. Once you knew their habits, it wasn't so hard to predict what they were going to do next. They were all the same thing to him: boring. However he found that from the moment he met the bushy haired girl, he couldn't read her like the rest.

Hermione was real. She wasn't pretending, like many people were. She had friends and although she never seemed to integrate herself into them, she never said bad things to them and never lied to them. She was smart enough to know between who was a friend and who was likely to stab her in the back. She didn't act as though she was important because of her name and she never looked down on people — unless they were idiots like Crabbe and Goyle. But even then, she always and actively tried to help, even to those who were a loss cause.

Even to people like him.

When her fingers caressed his cheek, a brush of fingertips that conveyed so much care, that was unfamiliar but not unwelcomed, Tom was struck breathless. He never allowed anyone to touch him because it reminded him of the way Mrs. Cole used to grab him roughly and he detested the feeling of being incapable of defending himself. Skin to skin contact made his skin crawl and his magic to wake in warning. He felt dirty whenever he was being touched. But this touch was so different from the previous ones he had.

It didn't make his skin crawl and he didn't feel disgusted with himself. This touch gentle and his thick walls that he had cultivated from the moment Mrs. Cole backhanded him for his offhanded comment simply ceased to exist because of one touch. One touch that made even the wildest and most feral of animals calm down. A touch that most people would crave from ther mothers and their lovers. A touch that made you feel loved and protected. Just a touch and Tom's magic leaped and soared along with a part of him in his chest that he still refused to name.

She smiled, oblivious of how his whole world shook because of a single gentle touch.

"I see you and I'm not going anywhere."

With that promise spoken with ardent sincerity, he knew in absolute certainty that this was the girl he would die, live, and go to war for.

Tom gave her his very first real smile. "You know this doesn't change anything."

She beamed. "Oh, Tom. It does."

Strangely enough, it didn't alarm him.

It felt right. The same as the magic in him, the same as Hogwarts and House Slytherin — It was his. Just like she was now his.

**A/N: Two updates for today because I have bad news.**

**I'm taking a break from this fic — OOPS! No, wait! Don't throw the tomatoes as of yet! Just listen first. Tomorrow is the start of my last year of high school. This is the year I'm going to graduate and I need to focus if I want to go to college and study English Lit (if my mom would allow me, that is.)**

**WAIT! I said stop the tomatoes, okay?!**

**Ehem. There is good news though. If you would like to compromise, I can update this book once or twice a week rather than taking a break from this entirely. I have a feeling that this fic is more than 50 chapters (I'm looking at you MataAra lol xD).**

**As for you Elizabeth, I adore your theories. Keep it up *throws my beating organ called heart***

**To the others, your questions would be answered... but not know.**

***in James' voice* All I ask is for you to be patient, Pumpkin.**

**(PS. If Pumpkin Pie is Harry and Hermione's other ship name, James and Hermione should be Pumpkin Juice.m because I based James' petname for Hermione when they first kissed. Hermione's hair was dripping with Pumpkin juice at that time. Wait, why am I talking about another ship in this fic?)**

**Tom: *kicks James' butt so hard he flew to the other fic* *dusts hands* *smiles charmingly* Now that that's done and over with. Shall we?**

**~ NR xx**


	9. Pensieve Memories No 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Nine**

**_Pensieve Memories No. 2 (Source: A. P. W. B. Dumbledore) — Hermione's Twelfth Birthday (09/19/1937)_**

Albus Dumbledore normally knew what was going on around inside the castle. Being a Transfiguration Professor, Head of House Gryffindor, and the Deputy Headmaster, he should know the most inconspicuous alcoves and hidden hallways especially since his house was known for rule breaking and trouble making. He knew the latest news and gossip circulating around in the school. He'd be a fool not to since it was likely the source of the conflict that occurred between and inside the houses. That's why he was extremely put-out when, for the life of him, he couldn't seem to find Hermione throughout the whole castle.

It was his daughter's twelfth birthday that day and Albus was scouring the castle for her with the intentions to give her his present. He had already visited the Gryffindor dormitory, just to be informed that she wasn't there. He went back to his office, thinking that she was there for him, before going to the Headmaster's office, but her presence was absent there as well. The only place he hadn't visited yet was the library and he was already heading towards there.

"Was Hermione here?" He asked genially at the librarian.

"In the back," the new librarian, the lovely Madam Pince who always seemed to abhor the idea of letting the students borrow books, nodded towards the very back of the library.

Albus nodded and went towards the back, only stopping behind a bookshelf when he heard voices from the other side. Voices that he could recognize as Tom Riddle and his daughter.

"Why didn't you tell me that it's your birthday today?" The boy demanded, sounding as though he was suppressing his anger.

"Because you didn't ask," answered Hermione with laughter in her voice. It seemed as though she was unbothered by the anger in the boy's voice or maybe she hadn't noticed it. "Why? What's wrong?"

"I should know when your birthday is. I'm your friend." He sounded petulant.

"And now you do," Hermione promptly replied. "Really, Tom. I don't know why you're so bothered by this. It's just a birthday."

"It's not just any birthday," he declared. "It's your birthday. I haven't... I haven't gotten you any gift."

To say that Albus was astonished would be an understatement. From what he observed from his class with Tom Riddle, the boy was calm and collected. There were times when he was quick to anger but he always kept himself under control. There was always an impenetrable wall around him that made him more noticeable and more formidable. Hearing him and his words made Albus think that the wall that separated him and the rest of his peers had vanished with Hermione's company.

"Oh, Tom. You being my friend is enough," Hermione said kindly but without any pity.

"It's not," Tom insisted. "Tell me what you want and I will give it to you."

"What? But Tom—"

"I insist, Hermione," he stressed.

It went silent for a moment. Then Hermione answered, "I want you to sing me a song."

Tom sounded as though he just choked on something. "What?"

"Yes." Albus could hear Hermione's smile as odd as that sounded. "A song. A happy birthday song."

"That's ridiculous—"

"But that's what I want," Hermione cut him off. "I want you to sing. I want to hear your voice. Please, Tom?"

There was another moment of silence.

And Albus was absolutely stunned when a low voice started singing the first verse of the Happy Birthday song. At first, it was flat and in monotone but when Hermione made a sound of protest, he added a melody and tune to it. His voice was quiet, obviously conscious that it would hear someone else.

"Beautiful, Tom," said Hermione after the song, sounding awed. "I love it."

Tom made a noise at the back of his throat. "You're very strange," he said slowly as though he himself couldn't comprehend her. "Other people would ask for materials such as clothes or shoes or even a diamond necklace."

"I don't want those because I have everything that I could possibly want," Hermione remarked without arrogance in her voice. "I have a father who supports and loves me. I have uncles and aunts who dote on me. I have my friends and most of all, I have you. Other people are unfortunate and doesn't have the privileged life that I live. I don't want to ask for anything else aside from the happiness and safety of those around me. Life is too fleeting for things that aren't permanent. Why ask for materials that wouldn't last when I can have happy memories with the ones I love instead? That song is one of those happy memories and thank you for giving it to me."

Tom went quiet and when he finally spoke, it was another Happy Birthday song. Albus frowned and turned away, his steps quiet. He would have to give Hermione her gift later.

**A/N: asdfghjkl— So my last year at Hogwarts is not what I expected it to be xD I'm sorry I haven't updated much but thank you for the wait, guys! You're awesome! And isn't Tom and Hermione adorable?!?!!!?! Like, Tom isn't that dark yet but baby boy Tom is asdfghjkl!**

**Reviews are welcomed!**

**~ NR xx**


	10. September 23, 1937 — First Year

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Ten**

**_September 23, 1937 — First Year_**

"Episkey."

"Bozoar."

"Skele-Grow."

"Pepper Up Potion."

"Blood Replenishing Potion."

"Chocolate."

He glared at her. "That's not a wizarding medical remedy."

"It is," she said, laughter in her eyes. "It's the most common remedy after an encounter with a Dementor. Even Healers recommend it."

She wasn't lying.

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. Sober Up Potion."

Her honey eyes pierced him. "That doesn't count."

The violet eyed boy looked smug. "It does. A Sober Up Potion can cure a headache when you're drunk."

She shook her head, her curly hair bouncing on her shoulders. "No. That's a common misconception. A Sober Up Potion doesn't really cure headaches or hangovers. It only sobers up the drinker or wake them up from their hangover state. That's why it's called Sober Up. However, the Anti-Hangover Potion can cure hangovers."

"The Anti-Hangover works when you drink it before ingesting alcohol," Tom pointed out. "However, if you drink it after, it is ineffective. That's why the drinker uses the Sober Up Potion instead. It might not be as effective as an Anti-Hangover Potion but since the human mind thinks that the Sober Up Potion can cure them, it would create an illusion that would make then think that they're not in a hangover state anymore. That's usually the reason why the Sober Up Potion is effective. If it doesn't work, they can always use a Pain Relief Potion."

"Fine, I admit defeat," she finally conceded, making him smirk. "How many points do we have?"

Tom looked at the parchment on the table between them. "You have fifteen points while I have seventeen now."

Hermione's put-upon expression had Tom chuckling behind his hand. She narrowed her eyes at him and he only cocked his head to side, face the image of innocence. He knew that she didn't believe his seemingly friendly and good boy façade. While other people would've easily dismissed it, she would call him out of his masks. She might as well be the only person who could see him for him — aside from her father, of course.

"Hermione!"

They both turned towards two Gryffindor and one Ravenclaw first years approaching their table. Lips pulled tight into a polite smile, Tom silently seethed when Poppy Pomfrey — the only Ravenclaw — Franklin Longbottom, and Fleamont Potter began stealing Hermione's attention from him. Hermione, ever the affable one between the two of them, smiled at her Gryffindor friends. Time and time again, he had to remind himself that Hermione had other friends, inside and outside of Gryffindor and even in the higher years. The reminder didn't make it any easier.

Tom wasn't jealous. Jealousy would only happen if he considered her other friends as his rivals and he didn't consider them as such, especially Potter, the poster child of heroism and idiocy. He already had Hermione so there was nothing to be jealous of.

In his opinion, he didn't think that they deserved her. They didn't understand her like he did. They always dissuaded her from studying or reading in favor of Qudditch or gossip. He didn't like the resigned look on Hermione's face whenever she had to put her book down, unable to handle peer pressure and he especially hated the fake smiles. With him, Hermions was happier. She would read in her heart's content and it wouldn't bother him because he would be likely reading as well. They would engage in multiple debates and games that would light up the fire in her eyes and make her soft voice raise into a shrill.

So, no, reminding himself that she had other friends — a title that he had a very low opinion of — didn't change the fact that he didn't like them.

"We were looking for you everywhere!" The chubby one who lost his toad the train ride to Hogwarts, Longbottom, exclaimed.

Tom gritted his teeth. Had the bumbling fool forgot that this was the library?

"Shh," said the dark haired one with crystal blue eyes. This one was Pomfrey. "This is a library, Franklin. We have to keep our voices down."

Longbottom blushed. "Oops. Sorry."

"What are you doing with a Slytherin, Hermione?" Asked the messy haired brunet with hazel eyes that was Potter.

Hermione casted a glance at him before giving a small smile at Potter. "I told you about Tom, didn't I, Fleamont? He's a friend."

Tom didn't react but inwardly, he made a face when he heard the word friend. Hermione considered them friends no matter how many times Tom said that they weren't. Friendship just seemed too benign, too shallow of a term considering that he didn't believe in that. He certainly wasn't using Hermione to fill in a void inside of him or to gain something for himself. As for Hermione, she was too kind, too good to even think about using someone.

In Tom's opinion, they were more than friends.

Potter frowned, looking skeptical and disapproving, but Tom kept his polite smile even though he wanted nothing more than to storm off, preferably with Hermione with him. But, knowing the bushy haired brunette, she would probably demand to return to apologize to them for being rude and Tom had no choice but to follow her.

"I don't know why you're friends with him," Potter said with a haughty sniff that reminded him of Aris Avery. "He's a Slytherin. My father told me that they're Dark wizards in the making."

Hermione seemed stunned by his accusation while Tom's nose flared in response. Longbottom looked nervously at the three of them while Pomfrey seemed as surprise as Hermione was. With his fist trembling as he fought to control his temper, Tom slowly stood up and started gathering his books. He didn't spare Hermione a glance, knowing that her honey eyes were pleading him to stay. Staying would be a bad idea because he was severely tempted to curse Potter's tongue to stick it above his mouth — it would do them all a favor if he finally shut his mouth and stopped speaking — but Hermione would undoubtedly be upset when that happened.

Clearing his throat, he slung his bookbag over his shoulder and gave Hermione a tight lipped smile. "I'll see you later," he murmured to her and after giving a nod to McGonagall and Longbottom, and a cold stare at Potter, he left.

He spent the rest of day all by himself outside the grounds, cooling his temper by studying for the next week's lesson and trying new hexes and curses that he read in the library — all for academic purposes of course. If he was thinking Potter's face while casting a Reducto on a broken tea cup, then it wasn't his fault that Potter's face was just the most favorable target, was it?

At the end of the day, once he was certain that he wouldn't draw his wand on Potter, he approached Hermione as soon as dinner ended to escort her back to her dorms. He enjoyed the scowl on Potter's face when Hermione joined him instead of them and he couldn't help but flash him a triumphant smirk as he led Hermione out of the Great Hall. He felt pleased that she was relieved to see him and he even felt more pleased when she grabbed his hand — all the while Potter and the rest of her Gryffindor friends were watching — and held it while they were walking back to their own dorms.

"Are you okay?" Hermione asked with a sidelong glance and a squeeze of his hand. "You're unusually quiet."

Tom snorted. "I am quiet. You're the one speaks enough for the both of us."

Hermione laughed. "Well, that's because you don't know how to start a conversation."

Tom scoffed. "I do know how to start a conversation. I just don't think it's important enough."

"And why is that?" He could tell from Hermione's tone of voice that she was merely humoring him.

"Well, I can achieve a lot by not conversing. I don't care about other people's opinions, only my own, so starting a conversation with them, no matter how trivial, is not important since I don't care," Tom said with a dismissive voice. "I'll likely forget about what they said, especially if the information they imparted doesn't help me gain anything."

"Does that mean that you don't care about my opinions as well?"

"Don't be stupid," Tom chided her, stopping to face her. "Aside from the fact that whatever you say is never less than important, you are also my," he couldn't help but grimace, "friend."

Thankfully, Hermione didn't take it as an insult. She merely laughed and jested, "Try saying that without a grimace this time."

Tom rolled his eyes. "You know how I feel about friendship."

"Hmm. We can agree to disagree, Tom."

They continued walking — or, in Hermione's sake, limping — their hands swinging between them as they debated about the merits of friendship and what it entails. In the back of Tom's head, as he argued his point to her, he observed that Hermione's hand was softer than what he had expected, warm and small in his hand. It was the first time they held hands. Hermione hadn't touched him ever since that time in the library which was strange since Tom was convinced she would start touching him once they established their 'friendship'.

They arrived at the moving staircases and Tom was about to leave to go down to the dungeons when he felt her squeezing his hand.

"What is it?" He asked, seeing the troubled look on her face.

"I'm just wondering, Tom." She looked away. "If you don't care about what other people think, why did you leave earlier today in the library after Fleamont implied that you were going to be a Dark wizard in the future?"

Tom contemplated what to answer. He couldn't very well tell her that he left to prevent himself from cursing Potter into next week, could he? Frankly, he didn't care about Potter's beliefs but rather the fact that he said that in front of Hermione. Tom didn't want her to get the idea that he was a Dark wizard. Although knowing the bushy haired brunette, she must've given Potter a tongue lashing as soon as he left. He was almost sorry that he missed it.

"You do know that Fleamont is just being stupid, right?" Hermione added, looking quite worried about his supposedly hurt feelings. "He's a child and his opinions are still dictated by what his parents think. You're not really a Dark wizard."

"Are you sure, though?" Tom raised one eyebrow — something that annoyed Hermione greatly because she couldn't do it herself. "We're still first years. We have plenty of time to determine that."

"And prove Fleamont right?" Hermione gave him a look. "I don't think you would want to give him the satisfaction."

Tom's lips twisted, thinking of Potter looking proud that he was right. "No," he spat venomously. "I won't give him that."

"Right." Hermione nodded primly. "Besides, there are no such thing as Light or Dark wizards. However, there was wizards with good and bad intentions. The problem is knowing which is bad and which is good." Then she smiled. "Anyway, thank you for walking with me, Tom. Take care of yourself, alright?"

Tom nodded and watched her limp towards the moving staircase which just so happened to move back into place.

He wondered what Hermione would think if she had gotten wind of his thoughts. Would she still debate which was good and which was bad once she glimpsed the surface of his mind and saw how much he wanted to hurt Potter because of what he said?

"Oh, Tom?" Hermione looked at him over her shoulder. "I know you don't like talking because you think it's unimportant but..." She gripped her staff tighter. "I like to hear you talk. I hope you do it more often and not just when we're debating. I love your voice. It's smooth like chocolate."

Tom didn't know what did it. It was either her words, her earnest eyes, or the demure smile on her lips. Maybe it was the way she said it, shy and unsure but still pushing it forth for him to know or the way she looked while saying it.

He wasn't really sure but it made him nod his head anyways.


	11. Pensieve Memories No 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Eleven**

**_Pensieve Memories No. 3 (Source: A. P. W. B. Dumbledore) — Conversation With Tom #1_**

It took three knocks on the door before Albus called out a, "Come in."

The door opened to reveal an eleven years old with dark hair but vibrant violet eyes wearing Slytherin robes. Tom Riddle Jr. walked into his office, his hands clasped behind his back and his face devoid of any emotions. Other students would've been shaking with nervousness, thinking that they had done something wrong to be called to a professor's office, but that wasn't the case for the young eleven years old. He was completely confident in himself that he hadn't done anything wrong or, if he did, he hadn't been caught. The Transfiguration professor gestured for the seat across from him and Tom took it without any words or greetings.

"Hello, Tom," greeted the professor with an amiable smile on his face. "You look rather well."

"Thank you, sir," said Tom politely. It was a huge contrast to the boy who threatened bad things to happen to him. His violet eyes trailed on the yellow and silver robes he was wearing tht had flashing images of the sun embroidered below. "The same could be said to you, sir."

Albus perked up. "Thank you. My daughter bought this robes for me the last time we went to Diagon Alley."

His twinkling blue eyes caught the slight twitch on the Slytherin's lips. "She has good taste, sir."

"She was the one who chose the purple suit the day we went to give you your admittance letter." Albus turned pensive. "She was quite incessant that she'd join me that day. It was quite out of character for her. You know, she rarely leaves the castle."

There was a greedy glint in those violet eyes. "Why, sir?"

"Why did she join me?" Albus shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe she was tired of staring at castle walls and wanted a change. She was quite excited to see the muggle side of the world. She said that what she learned from books could be wrong and wanted confirmation herself. She was... appalled when she saw the conditions in the orphanage." The professor looked apologetically to him.

Tom shrugged. "Donations are hard to come by these days, Professor. I hope that Hermione hadn't done something drastic?" He raised his eyebrows, silently questioning if Hermione had done something.

"Oh, she tried." Albus chuckled, remembering how she huffed and how loudly she protested after they left the orphanage. "We are actually going there this Yule. She wanted to visit and give gifts to the children. Although I think that she might just want to visit you."

Tom's face was blank. "I've already decided on not coming back to the orphanage this Yule, sir."

"Really?" Albus rubbed his long beard. "I don't suppose that Hermione knows? The two of you have gotten closer this past week."

Tom blinked, seeing through the professor's intentions. "Is this the reason why you wanted me to come, Professor? So you could prod my relationship with Hermione?"

The word relationship rang in Albus' mind. What an odd choice of word. He could've used friendship but he deliberately used relationship.

"You must understand, Tom," said Albus. "I am a father and my first priority will always be my daughter." He hesitated before continuing, "Hermione is good, Tom. She is wise beyond her years but she is also painfully innocent. She knows that there is evil and darkness in this world but she still sees the good and the light, and does what is right and willing to forgive what is wrong. Her innocence makes her believe in the good in everyone and in humanity. It's hard not to take advantage of a girl as naïve and as innocent as my Hermione. A father worries. Please, don't take it personal, Tom. I am naturally suspicious of the people who Hermione associates herself with."

"Even Gryffindors?" Tom questioned with a bitter note to his voice.

"Especially Gryffindors," Albus answered without missing a beat. "Even the students from my house are not above taking advantage of Hermione just to gain my favor. That's why, when I saw that you two have gotten close, I was naturally curious. I wonder why you're befriending my daughter when you had steadily avoided her a week ago."

The eleven years old tightened his lips. "I agree with your statements about Hermione, Professor," he said eventually. "However, I think you're underestimating her. She knows what and how people will react to her being a Dumbledore. She is innocent but she's not gullible. Even I can see that she keeps people at arm's length."

"But not with you," Albus pointed out, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, not with me," Tom agreed although his frown indicated he didn't want to. "Frankly, sir, I didn't like your daughter a few weeks ago. However, Hermione is a true definition of a Gryffindor: stubborn, relentless, and brave. She doesn't take no for an answer and after quite some time, I found that she's not so bad to be around. She has proven herself to be a good," Tom paused and choked out, "friend. And a good person. A very good one."

From an orphan who saw the wrong side of the world far too often, admitting that Hermione was good was a very high compliment.

"So, you have come to appreciate her?" Albus' smile was welcoming but his eyes were sharp.

Tom didn't seem to notice. "Hermione is not that hard to appreciate. If I may speak so frankly, sir, she is the only person I appreciate in my life."

Albus didn't why he found his proclamation daunting. Hermione was his daughter, his blood, and his family. She was the light in his life, the one who mended the rift between him and his brother, Aberforth. It should've relieved him that someone else had appreciated Hermione for herself and not just a name to collect. But what Tom had said didn't relieve him.

"Is that all, sir?" Tom politely inquired.

"Oh yes, Tom," Albus replied smoothly even with his chaotic emotions. "Thank you for being understanding. It's quite hard being a father, you see. Oh, care for a Lemon Drop before you go?"

Tom was already standing. "No, thank you, sir."

"Are you sure?" His hand hovered in the air towards him, the candy pinched in his fingers. "I grew fond of this candy when Hermione gave it to me one day. She had caused quite a scandal among us. She snuck out of the castle and went to Hogsmeade without an escort to buy me this. It's quite tasty."

Tom hesitated for a moment before saying, "I think I might just take one, sir."

Albus beamed, watching as he took the Lemon Drop from his fingers before he left. When the door closed, his smile fell.


	12. September 28, 1937 — First Year

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Twelve**

**_September 28, 1937 — First Year_**

Tom came upon them by accident.

He was about to go to his Herbology class, knowing that Hermione was likely waiting for him outside of Greenhouse One. He had already told her not to wait for him since the temperature was getting colder as it neared December but the bushy haired girl was too stubborn for her own good. Herbology was one of the two classes they shared and Hermione always waited for him outside when she was the first one to arrive. He hoped that she wore a scarf at least.

He heard her voice before he saw her.

"No, please! Stop it! You're hurting her!"

Tom's eyebrows furrowed at the distressed sound of Hermione's voice and he turned around the corner of a large pillar to find her sitting on the grass, cheeks stained with tears, as two first year Slytherins towered above her. _Avery_, his mind supplied, _and Mulciber_. They were both wearing a gleeful and sadistic grin on their faces, one was holding her staff up out of her reach while the other had his wand trained on something from behind them that he couldn't make out. Hermione merely looked at where the wand was pointed, appearing completely vulnerable and helpless without her staff to channel her magic into or to help herself stand up.

Tom was certain that his blood froze and his magic flared when he witnessed the scene. He knew that Avery and his gang had their attentions elsewhere for a couple of weeks after they cut him but he didn't know— he didn't know that their attention was on Hermione. His magic boiled and cackled as they laughed at her while she was pleading at them. His gaze drifted towards the creature she was defending and his magic paused at what he'd seen as shock coursed through him.

It was a snake. Not just any snake but a baby basilisk the size of an adult python.

She was defending a _basilisk_.

"No, please!" Hermione gasped out when Mulciber jabbed his wand and a cut tore through the snake. "No! Stop hurting her, please!"

Tom watched, his spine stiff, as the snake thrashed and wiggled but didn't strike at the boys while Hermione's cries went distant in his ears. Everything in him screamed to attack, to maim, and to kill. His rage built up and towered and he was at the peak. His magic grew and his fingertips tingled. He could feel the temperature drop a few degrees more and the wind blowing harder as his magic rose to its crescendo. The snake continued to writhe in pain, multiple cuts decorating its long scaled body. He darted his gaze at Hermione and something in him cracked at how loudly she sobbed and continued to plead.

Hermione should never plead. She should never feel helpless.

His wand was in his hand and suddenly, Avery was thrown back five feet away from them, landing painfully on his back. His sharp cry pierced the air and he was howling in pain, clutching one of his arms. Tom ignored him and tackled Mulciber to the ground instead. He was at his mercy, the tip of his wand jabbed under his throat that bobbed continually. Tom was straddling him on his chest, pinning his arms with his legs and snarling at his face.

"She told you to stop," he hissed through gritted teeth, violet eyes conveying the pain and the utter demise he would bring to them.

Something flashed in Mulciber's eyes even as he tried to remain calm. Tom knew it as well as the back of his own hand.

It was fear.

And it was intoxicating.

He drew his fist up, wanting nothing more than to deliver pain by his own hand because vermin like him didn't deserve to be punished by wand, but someone grabbed his arm, preventing him from taking a move. He whipped his head to the side and found Hermione looking at him, her honey brown eyes spilling with tears. His chest tightened and his cackling magic instantaneously softened at the sight.

"N-no, Tom!" She pleaded with him. "Stop, please."

His nose flared. "He deserves it," he whispered to her, conviction lacing his voice. "He deserves to be punished, Hermione."

She shook her head frantically, wild curls spilling from the braid Tom knew her father had tied that morning. "Not like this. They deserve to be punished the— the right way," she told him, hiccuping.

Tom's face darkened and he looked back down at Mulciber, slowly lowering the arm that Hermione had in her grasp but continuing to shove his wand deeper into his neck. He enjoyed the way his eyes bulged and his mouth went agape. "You're free," he said quietly but his eyes were fit for a savage, "for now. But make no mistake, Mulciber. I will find you and I will make you pay. Along with your friends."

Mulciber's eyes widened as did Tom's vicious smile.

"Stay away from Hermione," he warned, "or I will do whatever it takes to rip you apart and make you feel every moment of it. Do you understand?"

Mulciber nodded frantically, whimpering in a similar fashion of a beaten dog. Tom stared at him before going up to his feet, watching as his Slytherin housemate crawled away from him and went to Avery who was now crying. Tom grinned when he saw his arm, his bone in his elbow jutting out of his skin in an unnatural way.

"Come on! Get up!" Mulciber hissed, hauling Avery up to his feet and leaving with their egos bruised and their bones broken.

Tom turned to Hermione who was comforting the snake of all things. She had gotten her staff back and she was using it to mend the cuts on the basilisk's body. Tom's lips tightened and his eyes flashed. What would have happened if he hadn't discovered them sooner? What would those two do to her?

"Why didn't you fight back?" Tom demanded, his gaze trailing over the tears on her reddened cheeks.

Hermione sniffed. "I didn't want to," she answered him quietly.

"You didn't want to," Tom mocked. "So, if I hadn't come, you're just going to cry and beg for them until they'll obey your wishes?"

He could see that his question had made an impact if her bunched shoulders and her tight expression, as if she was preventing herself from crying or screaming, were any indication. She didn't respond and the anger inside of Tom demanded that she should.

"You're stronger than them, Hermione. So, why didn't you fight back?"

She whipped her eyes up to him. "Because I didn't want to hurt them, alright?" She snapped. "I don't want to hurt people."

Tom scoffed. Of course she didn't want to. "So, you're just going to let them hurt you, then? You're allowing yourself to be weak!"

She stubbornly shook her head, indignation etched across her face. "Fighting back doesn't always mean that you're strong, Tom. Just as letting them hurt me doesn't mean that I'm weak. I didn't want to fight them because I knew that I'd hurt them and I don't want to hurt people."

Tom pursed his lips and glared at her. "It's not about hurting people, Hermione. It's about defending yourself," he insisted, sitting next to her and watching as the cuts on the basilisk started to heal slowly. "Why does it matter if you hurt them when they hurt you?"

"It matters," she countered. "It matters to me, Tom. I'm not like you. I have a conscience. If I hurt them, even in an act of defense, I... I'll think that I'm one of them and I can't handle that. I'd rather be me, beaten and dragged down, than become one of them."

Tom looked at her, at the stubborn pout on her lips, the creases between her furrowed eyebrows, and the wrinkles in her scrunched nose, and he knew that he couldn't sway her. He sighed; an exasperated sound that made her look at him.

"I'll just have to protect you," he said this offhandedly, as though it wasn't a poignant statement. He gave her a look when she grinned, tears and all. "I won't let you get hurt again. No one can hurt you again as long as I'm on your side. I'm going to protect you against them. It will be us against the world. I promise you that. Now, will you please stop crying?"

Hermione let out a watery laugh. "I'm afraid that I'm about to."

"Oh, Merlin, don't," Tom groused, wincing before looking at the baby basilisk. "What's this doing here? I thought basilisks were extinct."

It was odd that it wasn't attacking them and it was odder still that it wasn't hissing. It only laid there on the grass, eyes flickering. If it weren't for the fact that it would dart out its tongue, he would've thought that it was dead.

"I found her when I was ten," said Hermione, petting the head of the snake that was oddly letting her. "She can't hurt anyone because she's blind. I'm not allowed to bring her to the castle so I let the gamekeeper take care of her for the meantime but she always comes out whenever I'm in my Herbology class to visit me."

Tom mentally shook his head. Only Hermione could have found a blind basilisk and keep it as a pet.

"What's her name?" He asked her.

She smiled even brighter.

"Nagini," she answered. "Her name is Nagini."


	13. September 21, 1996 — Present Time

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

**_September 21, 1996 — Present Time_**

"I'm really sorry, Headmaster," said the teary eyed Mediwitch. "There's nothing that I can do. The curse is rapidly spreading and attacking your magical core, Headmaster. I don't think," she sobbed, "I—I don't think you will make it past the next school year."

Albus sighed and smiled softly at the sobbing witch, his blackened hand resting on his lap. He did not appear surprised by the news, as though he had concluded the results himself. "It is alright, Poppy," he soothed the younger witch before him. "You have done what you can do. Maybe it's time for me to depart in this world and go on to my next Great Adventure."

"Oh, Headmaster." The Meditwitch sounded distressed. "I feel like I've failed— failed her."

Albus' blue eyes sharpened even as his heart twinged. "Poppy, please. If she was here, she would've assured you that it wasn't your fault. Accidents happen. I have been careless when handling the cursed object and now I'm suffering the consequences. Hermione," the twinge in his heart dug deeper, "would've been scolding you right now."

The Mediwitch sniffed and nodded her heart, sadness making her shoulder slump. "What will happen now, Headmaster?"

Albus looked down at his blackened hand which he immediately casted a glamour on. "Now, we must make haste. Tom is making moves as we speak and we cannot be careless now."

"If she was here, none of this would've happened," the Mediwitch uttered softly. "She was the only one capable of handling Tom, the one who keeps his darkness at bay. Now that she's gone, he's turned completely mad."

"Lord Voldemort is not Tom," Albus said firmly as though it was written in the law and must be abided. "Voldemort is a disgusting piece of himself, a torn fragment that is no longer whole. He cannot be and will never be Tom."

Because for Albus, Tom was the orphan boy that his daughter chose to befriend and to fall in love with. He was the boy who took care of his daughter and did everything in his power to keep her happy. He was the dark knight who watched over her and protected her. He was the boy who made her laugh so loudly and made her smile brightly. He was the boy who comforted her and promised to stay with her. He was the boy who fought tooth and nail to be with her. He wasn't a good boy and Albus knew that he couldn't be, but he tried to be, tried so hard for her.

Voldemort was a copy, a distorted mirror image of the boy who loved his daughter. He was the broken piece, the ripped fragment that tainted the image of the young man who knew love a long time ago. He was foul and corrupted and he wouldn't know Hermione as much as a he loved her. Because for Albus, he believed that no monster or man could ever love his daughter the same way Tom had loved her.

Not even Voldemort who started a war for her.

The Mediwitch looked at the old Headmaster before her. "There is no saving him anymore, is there, Headmaster?"

It was a moment before Albus finally shook his head. "A long time ago, maybe," he told her. "If she was here as you say, absolutely. But this is now and that was before. She is no longer here. There is no saving a monster, Poppy."

Albus let the Mediwitch cry. "He was such a brilliant man, Headmaster. It was such a waste."

Albus closed his eyes and saw sparkling honey brown eyes, distantly heard soft giggles and barking laughter, tasted Lemon Drops at the back of his tongue, and smelled the sweet scent of tulips if he inhaled deep enough. He thought of her again, as he always did after and before her birthday which was on the 19th of September, and his heart broke time and time again whenever he did. Every single day was a struggle, a tedious task that he took as a duty because he did not want to dishonor.

_"Oh, Papa," she said to him one afternoon, "I have a gift for you."_

She liked giving gifts, he remembered as his breath hitched. It was a way for her to show her appreciation and her love. She never asked for anything in return, always so happy to give away the things that made other people happy. No matter the occasion and even if there wasn't an occasion at all, she would make an ordinary day special because of her gifts. His daughter's heart was as big as the Hogwarts castle itself.

_"Socks?" He exclaimed as he pulled out a long woollen sock that was green and pink striped._

_She had nodded. "Yes. You see, I noticed that you don't wear socks and I got worried. The castle can be awfully cold in the winter and I thought that it would keep your feet warm when you move around to your classes. Do you like it?"_

_He looked at the sock, then at the young face of his daughter, and couldn't resist the urge to smile at the hope in her eyes. "I love it," he said reverently. "In fact, I am going to wear them now."_

And he remebered wearing them for a week, even as she complained about smelly feet and socks. He wore them — because she always laughed and smiled when he did.

What he wouldn't give to hear her laughter again, to see her smile grow across her face, and to tell her that he loved her with all of his heart.

But she was not there and he could no longer do that anymore.

It was such a small time for a brilliant girl who brightened the world.

He opened his eyes and looked at the sobbing witch. "Poppy?" He said, his voice slipping through her sobs. "Please tell Severus to come to my office. We have plans to make. Thank you."

"Yes, yes, Headmaster," the Mediwitch said, watching as he walked away.

_"This was all your fault,"_ and he heard a deep voice of boy saying that to him even if he was alone in the hallway.

A young image of a boy flashed in his mind with hateful violet eyes and volatile magic.

Albus couldn't help but agree with him though. _It was all my fault_, he thought as he strode towards his office. It was a mantra that echoed in his head for the last fifty years of his life, ever since he had lost her.


	14. September 30, 1937 — First Year

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Fourteen**

**_September 30, 1937 — First Year_**

The news about Tom's attack to Mulciber and Avery had spread all throughout Hogwarts. Apparently, someone had seen his magic lashing out at his housemates — someone who only watched and didn't help Hermione, he reminded himself, filing that away in his mind to plan over later — to defend the Gryffindor Golden Girl and daughter of the Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts, and the news had spread like wildfire. Many could not fathom why a Slytherin like him would ever defend Dumbledore's daughter who was also the one considered the Princess of Gryffindor but no one questioned it, especially when enough visual evidence was presented whenever Mulciber and Avery cowered away from him whenever he was breathing in the same room as them.

This had led him to meet three Fifth Year students — the same students who ruled the house Slytherin with an iron fist, who were considered the children of the most influential family that had ever existed, and who was the Powerhouse of Slytherin — named Abraxas Malfoy, Thaddeus Nott, and Edmund Rosier. They were considered the princes of the Wizarding Community of Britain and Tom was quite curious when the three of them approached him one evening.

The Slytherin common room was oddly empty that night when he was sitting by the fire, scribbling on a parchment that recorded the detailed events of his time in Hogwarts, starting from his first day in school although he had also kept account on the day he received his Hogwarts letter and met Hermione. He was completely alone that night. Tom dismissed the occurrence as nothing and it wasn't until the three Pureblood princes approached him that he realized it had been done deliberately.

Vibrant violet eyes flicked up from the parchment as Abraxas Malfoy chose the leather seat across him, throwing his leg over his other with practiced elegance and grace as he steepled his fingers, his elbows propped on the armrests. His white blond hair was tied loosely, allowing several silvery strands to frame his sharp and pointed face. Tom wondered idly that he looked like a shark. Thaddeus Nott chose the seat that was placed directly in front of the fireplace, cracking open a book and appearing as though his presence didn't weigh any significance that evening. Edmund Rosier merely leaned his back against Thaddeus' chair, looking completely bored and uninterested.

Tom darted his gaze from Abraxas to Thaddeus then to Evan before it went back to Abraxas. Slowly, he dropped his quill in his ink pot and rolled the scroll and tying it with a red ribbon that Tom remembered Hermione gave to him the other day. He scowled inwardly; he had to break the brunette's habit of giving him Gryffindor colored things.

"Tom Riddle." It was Abraxas who spoke first, his voice deep and velvety. "I've been wanting to talk to you for many days now. It isn't every day that a mudblood — ah, excuse me, a muggleborn is let into the house of Slytherin. And yet, you are powerful despite your lack of prestige and your unfortunate blood status." He tilted his head to the side, regarding him silently. "You are an anomaly, that is for sure."

Tom narrowed his eyes and readied his wand in case things got out of hand. He knew he didn't stand a chance against them when there were three of them and knew more advanced magic than him but he would not hesitate to protect himself with his life or die trying. Although he preferred they'd die instead of him.

"Are you giving me a compliment, Malfoy?" Tom questioned coolly, eyeing Edmund's seemingly relaxed posture and Thaddues' indifference. "I don't think you came here to have a chat with the mudblood." He sneered.

Abraxas laughed. "Oh, you're right. I didn't come here to have a chat." For the first time, there was a hint of smile across his face. "In fact, I came here to reward you."

Tom was certain his expression remained aloof but inside, he was shook. Reward him?

"What are you talking about?" He demanded, gripping his wand tighter.

Abraxas waved a hand in the air. "Oh, Tom. Didn't you know? Your rather impressive display to protect Hermione had earned our admiration and trust. It isn't every day that someone can get through that impossibly thick bushy hair of hers and do the impossible such as protecting that small thing."

Thaddeus snorted quietly but didn't stop flipping another page of his book.

This time, Tom couldn't control his facial expression, not when Hermione was involved. His eyebrows drew close and he was certain he was eyeing them with shock. He had thought that they came to punish him for what he did to their fellow pureblood mates but it seemed that he was wrong.

"You know Hermione?" He asked incredulously.

"Everyone knows who Hermione Dumbledore is before she was officially enrolled in this school," said Abraxas with a shrug; even that act was done with elegance. "She grew up here, Tom. My year, specifically, watched her grow up. You will find that our year, along with the Sixth and Seventh, are protective of her. Sadly, that does not mean that we can protect her all of the time, especially since she insists that she can take care of herself." His smile didn't reach his eyes this time. "We have a certain bond with her; all of the houses have. Hermione is quite important to us. Gryffindor or not, she has always been ours."

Tom clenched his hands, the Yew wand digging into his palm and leaving imprints, and his eyes grew dark at Abraxas' proclamation. Hermione? _Theirs? No_. He refused to allow anyone else to own her because she was his and only his. He knew that Hermione had plenty of friends but that didn't stop the fact that she was his friend. They were not allowed to claim Hermione as theirs; they had absolutely no right. It didn't matter that these men in front of him knew her longer than he did or that they had watched over her on the years that he wasn't there because she hadn't met him yet. Their time was over, they were over, and it was Tom's turn. Hermione didn't need them anymore.

Abraxas caught the dark intent in Tom's eyes and had the audacity to laugh at it. "Oh, silly boy," he mocked, wiping a tear away from his eye. "You're lucky that you had helped her or I would've skinned you alive because of that one look alone. Alas, our Hermione seems quite fond of you and the last thing that I want is to get our little lioness mad at us. Such a shame really. I would've found great pleasure in skinning you and breaking you apart with my wand."

Tom's nose flared, eyes flashing dangerously. "Did you just threaten me?"

Finally, Thaddeus' shut his book close and turned his attention to the only first year in the room. "Tom, we aren't here to make enemies with you. Ignore Abraxas. I fear that his humor have gotten worse in your presence. We're here because we can see that you care greatly for the lioness and although Gryffindor and Slytherin relations aren't favored, we can make a few exceptions, especially if the girl you're befriending just to happens to be a Dumbledore. Hermione is especially dear to us and what you have done will not be forgotten. If you ever need anything from us, just tell us and we will do whatever we can to grant it."

"Granted"—Abraxas interrupted—"that you would continue to protect Hermione in our place. In return, we will also protect you."

Tom pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes into slits, suspicions mingling in his violet irises. This encounter was getting stranger by the second. He didn't know that Hermione had garnered enough favor from the Slytherins to warrant this kind of attention. He knew that Hermione was special, everyone could see that, but to have Slytherins actively making their connection to the Gryffindor Princess known, was another thing entirely. Hermione was friendly to everyone, even that awful cat loving squib Filch who was the caretaker of the school, and Tom could tell how much Hermione meant to the three pureblood princes just by watching them across him. If they didn't care, they wouldn't have approached him and made their intentions clear to him like some sort of Hufflepuff. Slytherins were more subtle and had more finesse than that.

It was strange, Tom mused, to have this kind of devotion that was borne out of kindness and compassion. Because Hermione would not threaten, blackmail, or hurt someone to earn this; she did this with her smiles and laughter and with her kind heart and earnest eyes. Even Tom, for all of his cynicism and darkness, had been swept and taken by her light and had basked willingly in it.

A fool would mistake her for something innocent and fragile, someone who was weak, but Tom saw her clearly for what she was. She was something else, something dangerous. And he—he loved it.

A slow smile took over the frown on his lips. "I protected her because it was something that I wanted to do," Tom started. "Hermione is much as mine as she is yours and I take care of what's mine. You do not have to... approach me to make sure of that. Thank you for the offer, Nott; I will think about it. And Malfoy"—he sneered at him—"I do not need your protection."

Abraxas raised his thick white eyebrows, Thaddeus seemed amused and even Edmund, who had been stoic before, cracked a smile at him. Abraxas' silver eyes narrowed as he assessed him; Tom did not avert his gaze away from him. He was not just a mere first year who would rely on the older and more powerful wizards to protect himself — he only needed himself. He was strong and powerful even for a first year, that much he knew, and he didn't like how this pureblood prince reduced his worth and implied that he was incapable of protecting himself. In the end, it was the blond wizard who looked away

"Alright then," Abraxas remarked, grinning as he straightened his spine and stood up from his seat with a fluid grace of a dancer. "Looks like we have a deal. We'll be in touch, Tom Riddle."

Tom nodded, watching them with hooded eyes as they left him alone in the common room. Inside, his heart was brimming with triumph and satisfaction.

With the purebloods in his grasp, he might actually have the chance to know the truth about his heritage. He absolutely refused to be anything like a mudblood.


	15. October 11, 1996 — Present Time

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Fifteen**

**_October 11, 1996 — Present Time_**

There was someone standing in front of him with their back turned to him. Somehow, even without looking at their face, he could tell that the person was a she. She was 5'3" tall, wearing an old fashioned Hogwarts uniform and had long brown curls that tumbled down the middle of her back. Something inside of him tugged at the sight of her; her presence was like a siren's call that beckoned him closer. He took a silent step towards her, and as though she heard it, she suddenly twisted her torso and looked at him over her shoulder.

Something inside of him — something similar to a broken china plate — mended whole as he stared into her eyes. He didn't dare move, afraid that the slightest movement would rob himself of the chance to sink deeper into her eyes. Her eyes that were big and honey brown and filled with initial surprise that soon shifted into an expression that was close to tender and fondness. Her plump pink lips slowly curved into a smile, and there was something there that was synonymous to happiness. He moved another step closer and she fully faced him in response.

She looked somewhere between sixteen or seventeen but she was small and almost fragile looking. She wasn't what he would describe as classically beautiful. He could list girls on top of his head that were far more beautiful and prettier than her but for some unknown reason, he couldn't stop staring at her. He just couldn't.

He felt so warm, so content, so goddamn filled with happiness at seeing her that he never wanted to look at anything else ever again, not when she was there. Everything in the world seemed insignificant and pointless, not when she existed. There was a reason for living, for breathing, because she was there. She was there. In a world as dark as his, she was the singular light that brightened the darkest corners of his life and that— that made her beautiful in his eyes.

And she was his. He felt his mouth twitch. She was pure and beautiful and his.

"You're late," she suddenly said.

He blinked and tried not to shiver at the sound of her voice.

"I'm sorry," he felt himself answering her as he erased the distance between them with a few more steps until they were standing face to face. "Did you wait long?"

"What do you think?" She retorted and grasped his hand. Her hand was soft and small and so perfect as she interlocked their fingers together. "Come on. The carriages are leaving soon."

She began pulling him towards the open doors and there was a slightly noticeable limp on her step that made it all too easy to catch up to her. He felt himself frowning when he saw the freshly fallen snow beyond the doors and already felt the chilling wind brushing against his exposed skin. He looked at her and frowned some more when he saw that she wasn't wearing any scarf. She would shiver and catch a cold before they could arrive at their destination.

"How many times do I have tell you to wear your scarf especially at this type of weather?" He grumbled, tugging his hand from her grasp and then untangling the silver and gold scarf around his neck. "You'll get sick before we can make it to Hogsmeade."

"I casted a Warming charm," she told him, ducking when he tried to wrap the scarf around her neck. "What are you doing? You'll get sick!"

"I'll cast a Warming charm," he mocked her, smiling tightly as he held the scarf up. "Now, come here."

She didn't as much as budge. "It's really alright. I can take care of myself. You don't have to do that."

He sighed. "Stop being ridiculous. We're not leaving until you wear this bloody scarf on. I absolutely refuse to let you get sick."

"But I won't though," she said adamantly. "I have a wand and a handy charm—"

"That you have to recast every 3 minutes, maybe 2 in this weather," he pointed out as he took the matters into his own hands and wrapped the scarf around her neck before she could even make a move.

She eyed the gold and silver scarf as though it was offending her. "But you'll get sick in my place," she weakly protested.

He almost rolled his eyes. They both knew that he rarely, if not never, got himself sick.

He made sure to tighten the scarf around her neck, careful that the soft material wasn't choking her, before he remarked, "Better me than you." Then he looked up into her brilliant honey brown eyes and smirked wickedly. "If I do get sick, you'll be responsible for me, of course. After all, it's your fault for not wearing a scarf in the first place."

Instead of protesting, she smiled at him, resigned to her fate and to the scarf that wasn't hers. "We take care of each other," she said as she pressed a hand against his chest where his heart laid beating.

He looked at her, at her sweet smile, at her sparkling eyes, at her red nose, and then let himself smile back just because it would be a travesty not to. "Yes, we do," he agreed quietly and there was a beat of silence before he added, "But next time wear a bloody scarf. I'm not going to catch hypothermia for you."

She bursted out laughing.

And somewhere in the future, Harry Potter gasped as he woke up from his dream.


	16. Pensieve Memories No 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Sixteen**

**_Pensieve Memories No. 4 (Source: S. T. Snape) — The Bargain_**

A tall and lanky man was kneeling on the floor, his head down and his midnight hair falling over his pale face, obscuring the fear and greed in his obsidian eyes. Standing before him, with dark kempt hair and bright violet eyes that were slightly slitted, was a magnificent man with a magnitude of power in his grasp that only seemed appropriate for the gods above and not for mere mortals. But maybe he was a god, as his body was made for the sheer intensity of his power and his muscles coiled with magic that was far beyond what anyone had dreamed of. He was an otherworldly being, an extraordinary entity that escaped the watchful eyes of some forceful nature that didn't want to release him into this mortal world, knowing that he would only being destruction and chaos.

_Someday_, Severus thought, _he would have the same power and everyone who had wronged him would pay._

"Risssseee, my faithful sssservant," the magnificent man spoke, with a face that could launch a thousand ships, his velvety voice caressing his words the same way a lover would caress their partner. "You have brought me such valuable information, Severussss. Rissssseeee and look at me."

Severus slowly rose to his feet and gingerly met the gaze of the man who had welcomed him into his circle and who appreciated his talents, his prowess, and abilities far more than anyone in his life. His heart stuttered with awe as he gazed at the man whom he called his master; his distorted and yet handsome facial features inciting fear right through him. He tried not to tremble as he spotted the large snake that slithered across the floor towards his master. He didn't know what breed it was or what it was capable of, only that it seemed larger than life itself and it didn't seem stop itself from growing. It never did harm anyone, from what he could tell, but the sheer size of the creature was daunting and could make any man quake. The snake, Nagini, was his master's familiar and he kept her zealously close to him, almost coveted her to the point of cursing anyone if they would as much looked wrongly at her.

"As your most generous Lord, I can guarantee that your services will be awarded greatly," the magnificent man spoke, with violet eyes that were tinged with red. But his eyes, despite its bright irises, were empty and blank, devoid of any feeling or emotion as though any semblance of humanity or soul in him had vanished and left a shell of a person in its wake. There was nothing there but a black hole, a void of emptiness.

"Thank you, My Lord," Severus uttered graciously, bowing his head once again despite the odd discomfort he felt at uttering his title. From the first moment he had joined their group, he had seen his associates calling him their Lord, nothing else. The man before them was Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, and if he had any other name before the name he had fashioned for himself, Severus didn't know. Like the true Slytherin that he was, Severus had merely adapted his comrades' actions and didn't question his authority; he knew what would happen if he did. "I am forever your servant, eternally grateful of your generosity."

"As you should be, Severusss," the magnificent man spoke softly with great amusement. "After all, you would be nothing without me."

Severus flinched as though the words were a physical slap against his skin. But it was true, what he had said, that he would be nothing without him. He would have no purpose, no one to call brothers and sisters, and no one to trust although he knew better than to trust the man in front of him.

He licked his dry lips before forcing himself to utter, "You are, as always, correct, my Lord."

Severus heard a low chuckle coming from his direction and he made himself remember to breathe even as the sound has every hair on his body stand in attention. He heard a series of click as shoes met the floor before he felt a cool finger under his chin that forced him to look up into vibrant violet irises. At close, he could see the flecks of red and he tried not to shiver as he thought of the unusualness of that occurrence. He immediately looked away. Lord Voldemort was anything but natural. It seemed as though he was a walking, talking, and breathing contradiction to the natural order of things.

"So, tell me, my dear servant," the man before him whispered, "what is it that you want? What is your greatest desire?"

Severus swallowed the dryness of his throat and found the courage to speak. "There is... there is one thing, my Lord. An... an old friend of mine is part of the Order of the Phoenix. Lily... Lily Evans... P-Potter."

The magnificent man moved away, chuckling once more and looking amused at something. "Let me guess; you want me to spare her."

Severus nodded once before he realized that he wanted a verbal confirmation. "Y-Yes, my Lord."

"Hmm," he hummed, turning his back to him and Severus knew that he only did that, not because of trust, but because the snake would strike him if he betrayed its master. "I am, without a doubt, an advocate for justice and it will not be just to refuse your request. Lily Potter is a very powerful witch and a great asset in this war. It would be such a shame to waste her talents once we've won. Yes, I will spare her for you." He looked over his shoulder, violet eyes sharp. "However, you will keep her in line, Severusss."

Severus flinched and nodded his head as he heard the hidden threat in his words. "Thank you, my Lord." He bent his spine forward as low as he could before straightening.

"Answer me, Severus..."

Severus looked up to see a slow smile forming at the corners of his master's lips. It was both a beautiful and grotesque sight. There was no soul behind his smile or his eyes and Severus felt as though he was in the presence of a damned angel that had risen its way to become the devil.

"How many lives are you willing to take in order to spare hers?" There was a dark edge in his voice. "After all, a life can only be spared by another life."

Severus died a little when he saw the flash of red in his eyes and he knew that he had damned his soul.


	17. October 31, 1937 — First Year

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Seventeen**

**_October 31, 1937 — First Year_**

Halloween or Samhain was probably one of the dullest holiday that Tom had experienced until he came to Hogwarts Academy. Back in Wool's Orphanage, Halloween was spent the same as any other day; the only difference was there were a few chocolate bars for dessert after dinner. They did not go trick or treating or made costumes or even held a party. Everything was lackluster with the exception of a rather entertaining Mrs. Cole who indulged in a bottle of whiskey and scotch once dinner was over and would loudly tell them all about her unfortunate life and how much she hated them all. Frankly, whenever Halloween came in the orphanage, the living might as well be the same as the dead.

In Hogwarts, however, it was the exact opposite. Everything felt alive, even the ghosts that floated around and mingled with the students. The food was extraordinary and mouth watering; candies and chocolates were more common to find than actual food. The decorations were beautiful and pleasing, from the carved pumpkins with their various expressions that ranged from happy to angry and scary floating in the air, candles in their mouths, to the ghosts that had somehow tripled overnight and mingled with the students. In the Muggle world, Halloween was associated with fear but in Hogwarts, it was associated with wonder. You did not have to fear the dead when you've seen ghosts in a daily basis. Tom was simply drunk with it all that by the end of the night, there was a touch of smile across his lips and he was in a fairly good mood.

"You're smiling," Hermione had commented beside him as they were walking back towards their dorms, the sound of their shoes along with her long staff hitting the concrete floor accompanied them.

Tom consciously noted that he was absently smiling a while ago and immediately frowned. He had never done that before, smiling without thought like some kind of idiot. He wondered how long he had been smiling before Hermione had pointed it out. It didn't do well if someone saw his apparent happy mood. In the orphanage, showing the slightest bit of happiness due to material or immaterial things were considered a suicide. The children there were ruthless and spiteful, and they would do whatever it took to ensure that any happy thoughts were replaced with fear, hunger, or even pain. The orphanage wasn't meant to be a happy place.

Tom had learned earlier on to never show his happiness — which wasn't a difficult feat considering that the orphanage could make any optimistic person go into depression — and only showed his cruelty and ruthlessness, his satisfaction whenever he exacted his revenge. He collected trophies and trinkets and the children knew never to mess with him and his things. Despite that, he was careful not to smile at the most benign things because smiling meant happiness and exposing the reason why you were happy would be similar to attaching a sign to it that would let everyone know how important that was to you; and once they knew what it was, they would have no qualms taking it from you. It didn't take long before he was the ensuring that any child in the orphanage and those who made the mistake of crossing him were never happy.

"Oh, what's wrong? Why did you stop?" Hermione asked, bemused. "I didn't tell you to stop smiling."

Tom shook his head, intending to forget about his slight mishap. Hogwarts was different from the orphanage but it didn't mean that the same rules didn't apply, especially if you were sorted into the house of Slytherin and were labelled as a mudblood by your own housemates. In a way, the House of the Snakes reminded Tom of the orphanage. People see other people as a means to an end, as a way to gain something, which admittedly came easy for Tom to understand. He had been playing the game long before he could even walk or speak. It was really no wonder why he was immediately sorted into Slytherin.

"Ignore it," he told her. "It was a moment of near insanity in my part."

She snorted and rolled her eyes at him. "Hilarious," she deadpanned. "To think that you think that you're sane."

Tom faked a gasp although there a ghost of a smirk lingering in his lips. "That hurt, Miss Dumbledore," he said to her. "Truly. I am completely sane."

She only laughed at his antics. "Tell me," Hermione suddenly said, turning her head ahead of them. "Tell me what's your most favorite part of the day."

Tom arched an amused brow. "Why are you asking?"

"I can tell that this day was special for you," she said, tossing him an absent smile. "Tell me what's so special about it."

Tom frowned, not wanting to impart to the small but bright witch the horrors he faced in the orphanage. Hermione wasn't meant to know about the monsters and terrors one would encounter in life. She deserved more than that. As much as possible, he wanted her to remain in the unknown, to not be aware of the horrors one would face in the dark.

"Because you're in it," Tom said with a charming smile, the one he would use to trick a professor in the school or anyone really. No one could see through the cheerful and charming mask he constructed carefully.

She shot him a look and bumped her shoulder against his. "Be serious," she chided.

Tom sighed inwardly. Let him rephrase that. No one could see through the cheerful and charming mask he constructed—aside from Hermione.

"I've never seen more candies and chocolates in my lifetime before," he confessed quietly, giving her the impression that the confession was only meant for her ears and hers alone. "I could feel the magic in the air, back there at the feast, and everything felt alive, even the ghosts. I know that this day is meant for the dead and not for the living but from the twinkling lights to the jolly ghosts, it doesn't feel like it."

Hermione beamed, her eyes soft and shone like liquid gold. Tom's breath caught in his throat. Although she wasn't the prettiest girl by far, there was something about those eyes that made Tom speechless for a while. Magic would never cease to wonder and Hermione's eyes would never cease to make his breath catch. There was light in there that he hadn't seen in anyone's eyes before. Tom couldn't name it innocence or wonder but rather something else, something good, something that was just like this night: alive. Whatever it was, Tom hoped she would never lose that light. Some part of him wanted to bottle up that light and covet it, keep it from everyone else to see and notice because they would want it for themselves. But Tom resisted that urge. Because as much as he wanted that light, it was not his to share.

That—that tightened his chest and gave it a painful squeeze. He frowned to himself, never knowing the cause of that painful squeeze and what it was. He had never felt it before.

"Wow, I've never heard you sound so sentimental before," she remarked in wonder. Then she grabbed his hand and squeezed it tightly, a smile stretching her lips. "Come on. I've got something to show you."

Tom didn't offer a protest as she tugged him down towards an unfamiliar path. The hallway was dark but the more they went further, the more torches flared in response to their presence. The path they were going towards was some place he hadn't explored before, too busy practicing magic to ever notice it. He would have to rectify that soon, though. They went up the moving staircases until they came across the forbidden Third Floor of the castle. Tom shot a curious glance at Hermione which she either noticed and ignored or did not notice at all.

"We aren't allowed here," Tom noted. Normally, he would not say such an obvious thing but it needed to be said, considering that Hermione rarely, if not ever, broke the rules.

"Shh. Come on. Faster," she whispered with an excited air in her voice that was befitting for a child—which they both were.

They came upon a large wooden door that was made out of strong oak. Based by the scratches on the surface and the rust on the iron, it was probably as old as the castle but was neglected and uncared for. Tom watched impatiently as Hermione tapped the knob with the red orb of her staff, easily channeling her magic to unlock the door. The heavy door unlocked and they both stepped back as it swung open slowly for them. Tom peered inside the door, curious as he noted the darkness beckoning them inside. Hermione gestured for him to follow her as she stepped into the doorway and while Tom may had his reservations, he knew that Hermione would never do anything to hurt him.

He trusted her not to lead him astray.

They went inside the dark room, and Tom watched as the door swung close behind them. He pulled out his wand and uttered Lumos quietly under his breath, before following after Hermione's brown mane. They did not went far. They only took a few more steps before she stopped in front of a large and old mirror and Tom eyed her as she turned to him. The room suddenly brightened and so Tom cancelled the Light charm then proceeded to examine the large and intricate mirror and the words written above in fancy gold letters.

"Come," Hermione said, grabbing his hand and pointing towards his reflection on the mirror. "Look and see."

Tom's violet eyes met the ones in the mirror. He eyed himself for a moment: eleven years old and yet taller than most people his age with a slender build, boyish face, perfectly coiffed midnight black hair, and striking and vibrant violet eyes that Tom had the privy to know that he inherited it from his mother. He knew that he was handsome; he heard the professors whispering and gossiping that he would grow into a very fine and handsome boy. He noticed the way girls giggling over his looks and how even the older students seemed unable to keep their eyes off of him.

His vibrant eyes moved to the other reflection in the mirror: small with a mass of large curls taking up her whole frame and whose honey brown eyes were soulful and seemed to suck you in. And yet the only eyes he wanted to stay on him was the eyes of the person right next to him.

"What do you see?" Hermione whispered right next to him, standing close to him with their hands clasped.

"You," he answered honestly. "You and me."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "That's it?" She sounded surprised.

Tom nodded, eyeing their reflection together. Still so young, still had a lot to learn, and yet Tom knew that they were the strongest students to have ever graced Hogwarts in many centuries. She was the daughter of the future Headmaster, the current Transfiguration Professor, and the great Philosopher. Meanwhile, he was the orphan boy whose lineage remained unknown but whose magic could inspire wonder and awe. Together, hand in hand, they could do anything.

"Why?" He asked her. "What am I supposed to be seeing?"

Hermione turned to him. "Papa showed this to me back when I was nine years old. This is the Mirror of Erised."

"Desire," Tom immediate deciphered. "It doesn't only show our reflections, does it?"

Hermione shook her head. "No; it shows our greatest desires, the one our heart harbors. However, it doesn't show the truth, as much as we want it to." Then she smiled. "Papa once said that the happiest man in the world would look upon this mirror and only see himself. It turns into a normal mirror without enchantments."

"But I see us," said Tom, cocking his head and looking confused. "I see us the way we are now."

Hermione peered into his eyes and squeezed his hand tenderly. "Maybe that's your heart desires, Tom."

Tom blinked and looked back at the mirror, gazing at their reflections with a new understanding. He saw himself with his hand wrapped around Hermione's and although his lips weren't smiling, he could tell that he was very deeply happy inside. In the real world outside of the mirror, Tom tightened his hold on Hermione's hand and thought, yes.

Yes, this was what he desired most. To have Hermione to hold—his Hermione, in every way.


	18. October 15, 1996 — Present Time

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Eighteen**

_**October 15, 1996 — Present Time**_

They were in the Astronomy tower and she was throwing her head back and laughing at something that he didn't know what about. The air was cold and the sky was glittering with stars and he felt breathless by the sound of her laughter and how it seemed like it was pushing back the dark horrors of his life and replacing them with light instead. Even though it was cold, she was warm beside him with her Gryffindor robes and red scarf; he didn't want the moment to end. Then her eyes opened and stared right through him, a joyful honey color that was as divine as the smile playing across her lips.

Then she said, "Happy birthday."

And Harry woke up. Again.

He stared at his ceiling as he panted heavily, the remnants of his dream was being chased away the more sleep began to ebb off of him. But he could still see the happiness in her honey brown eyes, could still remember how her laughter felt like balm soothing his scarred soul, and he felt something foreign inside of him humming with elation.

"You okay, mate?" He heard Ron asking on the bed beside him, followed by a yawn.

Harry cleared his throat and wiped a hand down his face as he tried to force the image of the unknown girl of his dreams to the farthest corner of his mind. "Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah, I'm okay."

He had been dreaming her for weeks now. He didn't know her, not from memory and not physically. He hadn't met her and yet he felt as though he had known her all of his life. Whoever she was, she was a welcome reprieve from the nightmares that came haunting him at night.

Throughout the day, thoughts of her kept drifting out and in of his mind. He felt agitated by the end of the day, feeling as though his skin was not his own. By dinner time, the feeling didn't leave and he had no choice but to walk around the castle, hoping that it would help somehow. The girl — who was the girl? Why was he dreaming about her?

The cold breeze chilled him and he realized that he had wandered too far and had stumbled upon an unused and abandoned corridor. The torches lit up in flames the further and deeper he went. He noticed the portraits on the walls and his eyebrows furrowed when he realized that none of them moved as though they were muggle paintings.

There were names below the portraits and it wasn't until he read the first three and caught Myrtle Warren's name when he realized why the hallway was abandoned; the portraits were students who had died within Hogwarts premises.

A shudder raced through the line of Harry's spine and it felt as though something died and crawled beneath his skin. He was suddenly glad that the portraits didn't move because he didn't think he could handle watching them move as though they were alive. He wanted to get away as fast as he could.

But when he took a sharp turn, that's when he saw her.

It was a portrait of a girl — the girl of his dreams. As though being lured by the voice of a Siren, he took a step closer to her, his heart beating out of his chest. She looked exactly the same in his dreams; the same nose, the same freckles, the same hair, the same eyes, and the same smile. The resemblance was uncanny.

Even in painting, she still looked so happy.

The closer he got, the more he felt as though his soul was slowly being sucked out by a Dementor. If he hadn't known heartbreak before, he would've known so right now. He didn't know her and he hadn't met her and it appeared as though he would never be able to because she was dead. He felt longing sadness all of the sudden and he felt as though someone stole something from him that he would miss dearly. The few dreams he had with her in it were the few times he ever felt truly happy and safe, and he felt that he was robbed at the chances of finding that that kind of happiness in real life.

His eyes drifted to her name plate and what he read had chilled his blood.

_'Hermione Jean Ariana Dumbledore (b. 1925; d. 1941)'_


	19. October 31, 1981 — The Last Night

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Nineteen**

**_October 31, 1981 — The Last Night (of Lord Voldemort)_**

There was a scream.

There was a flash of green.

Then there was nothing.

He screamed out the agony of his soul tearing, of his body wasting and crumbling, of his bones breaking, and of his mind shattering.

There was laughter.

Was it his?

He didn't know anymore.

He could not think of anything.

Could not feel anything.

Other than pain—

Pain—

So much pain—

He blinked the tears prickling at the corner of his eyes as he doubled over, his legs slowly turning to dust. His eyes widened as he saw his fingers withering and he choked in a sob.

He wanted to laugh.

He wanted to cry.

He wanted—

He wanted—

Someone was crying.

He could hear it distantly, muffled by his anger, his agony, his anguish, and his terror.

He was dying, some part of his mind conveyed to him.

This was not how he imagined his night to go.

But he supposed that this was supposed to be karma.

Amidst the haze of his mind numbing pain, he could still hear her.

Her—

Her—

He could not utter her name, even in his own head, without wanting to tear his heart out of his chest.

But he could hear her.

Her carefree laugh—

Her snobby voice—

Her unladylike snort—

Her annoyed huffs—

Her absent hums—

Her deep breaths—

He didn't know whether he wanted to cry or laugh.

Merlin, what he wouldn't give to see her again.

But—

She never went away, even as his own magic failed him at saving her.

She never left him, he guessed, not even in death.

Did he deserve her?

Probably not.

He never did.

But that didn't stop him from wanting her though.

_"It's okay, Tom," _he could hear her saying beside him and if he closed his eyes and wished it enough, he could almost imagine her sitting next to him, watching him with her worry filled eyes— eyes so bright, it looked like gold sometimes.

Merlin, they had made so many plans together— never knowing that it would never be fulfilled.

He cried out— whimpered— sobbed— and finally he laid on his side; the few limbs he had were shaking. He felt feverish and he gurgled as he felt his own bile rising to his throat.

The room was spinning.

There was crying.

There was screaming.

He often wondered if this was what hell felt like.

But no—

No, he already began living in hell when he had lost her.

No, this was not what hell felt like.

No, this was punishment.

This was torture.

This was fate's way of punishing him.

But—

Hadn't fate punished him enough though?

They had already taken her so why did they have to take him too?

The few years they spent together wasn't enough to sate the craving of his soul— his need to be with her.

Would he get to be with her though?

He tried to spell out her name, to say it aloud one more time after so many years of refusing to say it because it brought more pain to him, but his throat was dry and his tongue felt too big inside of his mouth. He could not feel his legs anymore.

No, his mind whispered its answer. He wouldn't get to be with her.

He didn't deserve that—

Her—

Her—

Her—

_"It's okay, Tom," _he could hear her saying and could almost feel the phantom touch of her hand on his cheek. He wished he had the strength to nuzzle his face to her warm palm. _"It'll be over soon enough. You don't have to feel pain anymore."_

But he did feel pain.

Pain was his constant companion.

For so many years, he lived in— with pain.

Pain that was the equivalent of a crucio, if not more so.

Pain that started when she left him. Nay, when she was taken from him.

She wouldn't voluntarily leave him.

She was the only thing that mattered to him— and then she was taken.

But even when she was taken, she had never completely left him.

She left an imprint in him that time and madness could not erase.

He could smell her, he thought as he closed his eyes.

The scent of tulips filled the air and he almost sobbed in relief because it really did feel as though she was with him.

Even in his own death, she would not leave him so.

Should he be thankful for that?

Yes.

Yes, he was thankful for her—

Her—

Her—

Her—

Her—

Her—

_"—Mione—"_

He gasped out.

He could not feel his heart anymore.

It did not beat any longer.

But if he was honest with himself, it was no longer beating when she was taken from him.

_"Just a bit more. It's okay."_ He could hear her crying now. Such a bloody Gryffindor. _"Just a little bit more, Tom, and it will all be over now. You're so strong."_

But he wasn't strong, he wanted to tell her. He wasn't strong enough to save her.

_"Rest now, Tom. Close your eyes. We'll see each other again."_

Promise?

_"I promise."_

And so he did—

But he never saw her again.

He often wondered if this was what hell felt like.


	20. November 12, 1937 — First Year

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Twenty**

**_November 12, 1937 — First Year_**

Tom was in the library, looking for a book in DADA when Fleamont Potter approached him. The Slytherin eyed the Gryffindor, sneering to himself when he saw his proud chin and expression of determination. Tom knew that he would do something 'noble' or something as stupid as that based by his expression alone. He had seen enough of that expression alone from Hermione. He snorted quietly. All Gryffindors were the same breed, weren't they?

"Can I help you?" Tom asked acerbically.

Potter jutted his chin out some more. "Stay away from Hermione," he said stubbornly.

His vibrant violet eyes eyes flashed and the open book in his hand snapped close. "Excuse me?" He asked, deathly quiet.

Potter mustn't have noticed that he had misstepped because he continued. "You heard me. I want you to stay away from Hermione," he repeated. "You're no good for her. You're a dark wizard; I know because my father told me this. Hermione doesn't need your darkness tainting her so stay away."

Tom wondered if he could get away with snapping his neck now and making it look like an accident. Furious wouldn't be an apt term for the volatile emotion that swirled inside of him. Not even Mulciber and Avery, when they were bullying Hermione, made him feel that way. He didn't just want violence against Potter; he wanted torture. A quick and painless death wouldn't satiate his desire to end Potter.

But he remembered quickly that this was Hermione's friend in the Gryffindor house. It wouldn't do well if he punished him for even ordering him to stay away from her. He knew, though, that Hermione would never tolerate someone telling her what to do. She would immensely be disappointed and angry of Potter once she knew what he was ordering him to do.

"Hasn't it occur to you, Potter, that it's Hermione who's unable to stay away from me?" Tom suggested smoothly without letting anything get past through his mask. He would not give Potter the satisfaction that he had affected him.

Potter blanched. "No, she— You must have brainwashed her!" He cried out. "Hermione is a Gryffindor and a Dumbledore. She's the kindest and most brilliant witch that I've ever met. She's precious and I won't let you corrupt her with your darkness!"

His left eye twitched and he almost grabbed his wand to send a curse at his direction. "Do you think that I don't know that?" Tom spoke, still quiet, but all of the promises of pain and torture was flashing in his eyes. "Do you think that I don't value Hermione for what she is? She is my friend, Potter. She will always be my friend, even if she decides to leave me. She is mine."

"She is not yours!" Potter immediately rebuked and Tom was all too ready to kill him now, if only he could get away with it. "She has never been yours, Riddle. You might be friends now but once Hermione sees what you truly are, she'll never want to be your friend again."

Tom laughed and it must've caught Potter off guard because he took a step back. The Slytherin continued laughing though but it was obvious, the longer he continued, that it was a derisive and mocking sound. Potter eyed him warily.

"Are we talking about the same person, Potter?" Tom spat with a shark-like smile across his face. "Because as far as I can tell, Hermione doesn't abandon her friends whether they are Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, Slytherins, or Hufflepuffs." He arched a sly brow. "After all, she hasn't abandoned you, has she?"

Potter bristled. "I swear, Riddle, if you ever harm her or use her or even dare attempt to do something to her, I will be there to stop you."

Tom scoffed and watched him walk away with hooded eyes. He had no doubt that Potter will remain true to his word and he cursed him for being such a loyal friend to Hermione when he didn't even deserve her. No one deserved Hermione— not even him.

Tom frowned, reaching up a hand to his chest when he felt a hollow ache inside.

_No matter,_ he thought, rubbing his chest, _Potter would never fulfill his vow because he had no plans doing something to Hermione that can harm her._

She was the only thing that mattered to him; she was his most prized, valuable, and only friend.

He would rather die than let anything bad happen to her.

* * *

**A/N: The next update will be tomorrow lol**

**Reviews are welcomed! Stay safe, everyone!**

**~ NR xx**


	21. Pensieve Memories No 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Warning: Mentions of abuse.**

**Chapter Twenty-One**

**_Pensieve Memories No. 5 (Source: A. P. W. B. Dumbledore) — Conversation With Hermione_**

_Something wrong must've happened to his daughter,_ Albus concluded when she arrived in his office with a huff and a few creases on her forehead. He watched as she plopped down on her seat across him without even acknowledging him and then proceeded to glare at the flames in the fireplace. Her bushy curls seemed to coil tighter which was a sign of her growing agitation. Albus chuckled as he put his tea on the coffee table with a soft click.

"Hello to you too, my darling daughter," Albus said genially, waiting for her to erupt which she promptly did.

"I cannot believe Fleamont!" She exploded, waving her hands wildly in the air. Albus almost shrunk back as though her short and thin arms would reach him. "Did you know that he told Tom to stay away from me?! The nerve of him! He's my friend but he can be such a prat sometimes! He has no right to tell Tom to stay away! He's my friend!"

Albus watched and listened to his girl, a hole of discomfort growing inside of his chest. Tom Riddle was an odd boy and much as he agreed with Fleamont Potter's sentiments, he also didn't want to gain Hermione's ire. Ever since she saw him in the orphanage, she had grown attached to him in a way that was increasingly alarming to Albus. He knew that his daughter had a habit of aligning herself with underdogs and mistreated creatures due to her bleeding heart but there was something about that boy that alarmed Albus.

Tom Riddle reminded him of another boy in a different time, with ice blue eyes and white blond hair. Albus shivered as he focused his attention to Hermione.

"Slow down, Hermione," he said to his daughter which she followed with another huff. "Usually, when I welcome you in my office with a greeting, I expect for you to return my greetings back." He smiled though, to let her know that there was no ill will. "Now, my dear, tell me what happened? And with pauses this time."

She looked sheepish before she reluctantly began her whole story again. Albus listened with rapt attention until she was over.

"And do you not find any merit in Mister Potter's statements?" Albus prodded gently.

Hermione shook her head. "Of course not, Papa, and those statements are more like accusations. Tom is not a dark wizard. Yes, his magic leans more towards the dark side but that's due to the environment that he grew up in. The orphanage is a dark place, you know that, Papa, so it shouldn't be surprising that his magic has a dark intent to it. But Tom Riddle is not a dark wizard. Magic is magic. There's no good or bad magic but only magic."

Albus nodded solemnly. If there was anyone who knew more about magic than anything else, it was Hermione. After all, the circumstances of her existence was a product of magic. Some might consider her existence dark while others would deem her wondrous.

"Tom Riddle is my friend," she declared. "Fleamont shouldn't have told him to stay away and thank Merlin that Tom has the decency not to listen to him. I care about the both of them but Fleamont is being unreasonable."

"Mister Potter cares about you as well, Hermione," said Albus. "That's why he warned Tom to stay away. He wants to protect you from harm."

"Tom will never harm me," she said full of conviction. "I'm his friend."

_And you put too much trust in your friends, _Albus thought grimly. One of his greatest fears was someone betraying and hurting his daughter.

"You are far too kind and trusting, my darling," he said tenderly. "But still, do not let either boy, or anyone else for the matter, take advantage of you and take you for granted."

By now, Hermione had relaxed if only barely. "They wouldn't do that. I carefully pick out my friends, Papa. I know that people try to get to me because I am a Dumbledore but I know better. If I don't find someone trustworthy, I stay away. If they're trustworthy, I'll befriend them."

"Ah, yes, but you do have a habit of picking the ones who, you think, need saving." Albus eyed her knowingly.

He knew the friends that she had all throughout the school. Most of them were older and someway or another, most of them had undergone extreme trauma as wel. Say, for example, Abraxas Malfoy who'd been caned and whipped since he was a boy and even up to this date. There was also Thaddeus Nott whose watchful father never allowed mistakes and was mostly ignored by his negligent mother. Then there was Edmund Rosier who watched his mother beaten to death and whose tongue had been cut off by his own father, making him incapable of speech despite of its newly regrown tongue.

He knew that Fleamont Potter was also brainwashed by his father with a black and white view of the world which Hermione would consider a handicap; Franklin Longbottom was a mess especially with his lack of confidence and self-esteem issues due to his harsh and strict father; and even Poppy Pomfrey had a questionable childhood.

All of Hermione's friends had terrible things happen to them and naturally, they gravitated towards Hermione as though she was the beacon of light that could save them. However, only Tom had the potential to do many great but also terrible things. The older Slytherins weren't the ones that he watched out for but it was the boy in the orphanage, whose power was obvious even at his young age.

"I can't save them," Hermione uttered softly, looking at the blazing fire. "Only they can save themselves and if they so choose. All I can do is help them realize that they can be saved and it's not too late."

Albus couldn't help but smile gently. This was his daughter, so wise even at the young age of twelve, and he couldn't be more proud of her at this moment.

He couldn't help but wonder though if Tom Riddle could be saved or if he was a lost cause from the start.

_But maybe,_ Albus eyed his daughter as she finally poured tea into her cup, _maybe with Hermione by his side, he didn't need to be saved because he'd already been saved by her._


	22. September 11, 1992 — The Diary

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

**_September 11, 1992 — The Diary (of Tom Marvolo Riddle)_**

_'Dear Tom, i saw Harry a while ago... he looks so cute today, maybe more than usual... sigh... i dont know what to do anymore. who was i kidding anyway? Harry will never notice me... he probably thinks that im just his best friends weird little sister... i cant even talk to him without stuttering! Gaaaah! im so pathetic!'_

_**'I'm so sorry that you think that way, Ginevra. But be patient. Harry is still twelve years old; I don't think that he's thinking about anyone as his potential love interest as of the moment. That doesn't mean, however, that you shouldn't show yourself to him as the potential love interest. Right now, you need to build your confidence and self-esteem so that you won't find yourself stuttering whenever attempting to talk with him. I'm certain that in a few years time, he will see the lovely girl that you are inside.'**_

_'Oh, Tom... you really think so?'_

_**'I know so, Ginevra.'**_

_'Thank you so much, Tom! youre the best friend ever!!! i wonder... did you ever have a crush on anyone before?'_

_..._

_..._

_..._

_'Tom? hello? are you still there?'_

_..._

_'Tom?'_

_**'Oh, sorry, Ginevra. Your question surprised me.'**_

_'Oh! im so sorry, Tom. that seems like a personal question huh?'_

_**'Don't be sorry, Ginevra. You're allowed to ask me questions. After all, we're friends, aren't we?'**_

_'Yes, of course!!! i just want to get to know you!'_

_**'Indeed you do.'**_

_'Soo... who's your crush, Tom?'_

_**'Oh, Ginevra... I don't dawdle in silly things such as crushes.'**_

_'So... you never liked anyone then?'_

_..._

_'Hello? Tom?'_

_**'Still here, Ginevra.'**_

_'Are you okay??'_

_**'Of course, Ginevra. About your question, I believe that the answer is yes, I never liked anyone.'**_

_'You mean you never fell in love before?!'_

_..._

_..._

_'Tom...?'_

_..._

_'Hello...?'_

_**'Still here, Ginevra. I find myself conflicted with your questions. Like and love are two different things.'**_

_'So, you have been in love before?'_

_..._

_..._

_..._

_**'There is no before, Ginevra. Not when I'm still in love right now.'**_

_'Really??? who was she? what was she like? can you tell me about her? or him?'_

_..._

_..._

_..._

_..._

_'Tom...?'_

_**'She was everything, Ginevra. Words could not describe the wonder and beauty that she possessed.'**_

_'Oh my... youre really in love with her, arent you?'_

_**'I never stopped. She was enthralling. She could lure me in just by her eyes alone and her voice could calm the storm inside of me. But nothing could compare to her touch. With her touch, she never made me feel insignificant. Everything about her was simply breathtaking and she didn't even know the kind of effect that she had on me.'**_

_'Oh, that sounds so romantic. i wish Harry will love me like you love her.'_

_**'I doubt that anyone, much less your Harry, could love like I do. There is only one of me and one of her and she was mine.'**_

_'Where is she now?'_

_..._

_..._

_**'She's gone. She's no longer with me.'**_

_'Oh... im so sorry, Tom... did she leave you?'_

_**'No, of course not. She would never leave me. She's my best friend. She's embedded in me. She's not just a part of me; she's the very reason why I am still breathing. The memory of her, even after all these years, would never disappear as long as I'm alive.'**_

_'Oh, Tom... she's... she's dead, isn't she?'_

_..._

_..._

_'Tom...? Oh, im so sorry...'_

_..._

_**'No need to be sorry, Ginevra. Even if she's gone, she deserves to be remembered for the incredible witch that she used to be. The reason that I still exist is because of her, so that there's still someone who can still remember her.'**_

_'And now i know her! dont worry, Tom. youre not the only one who remembers her now.'_

_**'Ah, yes. That is true, isn't it?'**_

_'Yes! thank you for helping me with Harry and now im helping you with the girl you love! what was her name anyway?'_

_..._

_**'If it's alright with you, Ginevra, I would rather not say her name. It's far too sacred and I'm unwilling to share it.'**_

_'Oh, Tom... of course its alright! im so sorry, Tom. i shouldve known not to ask that.'_

_**'Now, now, Ginevra, how many times do I have to tell you not to apologize?'**_

_'Hmm... maybe a couple of times more? haha! She mustve been an incredible witch though because you fell in love with her.'_

_**'The very best, Ginerva. She was the very best. No one compares to her.'**_

_'Oh Tom... i feel so jealous now... if only Harry can notice me...'_

_**'Oh, I have no doubt that he will soon enough, Ginevra. If she was here, she would tell you to have faith and never give up as long as there's still a chance.'**_

_'Oh! she sounds very thoughtful! i wish shes still here, Tom...'_

_..._

_..._

_..._

_**'She is. Maybe not physically, Ginevra, but don't doubt that she's not here. Remember, she never left me. Not truly.'**_

* * *

**A/N: Harry will come back in the next chapter!**

**Stay safe, everyone!**

**~ NR xx**


	23. October 16, 1996 — Present Time

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

**_October 16, 1996 — Present Time_**

He could hear the usual murmur and activity that was surrounding him in the Great Hall but the noises seemed subdued to him somehow. He could hear people talking, laughing, joking, teasing, and it felt as though something was blocking his ears and he couldn't hear them clear enough, strong enough, hard enough. He was too consumed by the thoughts running rapidly inside his mind, his eyes staring unseeingly as his mind conjured the image of the girl that invaded his dreams for the past few weeks.

A Dumbledore.

She was a Dumbledore.

Moving mechanically, he lifted his gaze from the empty plate to the elderly man sitting on his seat in front of them all, overseeing the children eating their breakfast.

He tried to find some signs, some kind of damn clue that resembled her to the most powerful wizard of the century.

He couldn't find their resemblance.

The girl of his dreams— Hermione— whoever she was— was related to his Headmaster somehow.

Was she a daughter? A niece? A grandchild? Or maybe a wife?

Harry didn't know why he felt so unnerved, so disturbed by this revelation. He'd already been knocked off his feet because of the thing with Tom Riddle— Voldemort— Tom— You-Know-Who— whoever the hell he was supposed to be. Now, he felt everything in his world was spiraling out of control. He hadn't even anticipated these when he stepped into King's Cross station this year.

The things he learned weren't only baffling but it were also glaringly and laughingly impossible.

Apparently, Tom was just a grieving man intend on murdering countless of people, even a small child, because he lost someone he loved. Now, Harry was having dreams of some sort that featured his Headmaster's dead relative.

Those weren't even the tip of the iceberg.

Who would believe this shit? Even he couldn't wrap his whole head around it.

"Hey, mate, are you going to eat?" Ron's question broke through the thin barrier of his thoughts.

Harry looked back at him and watched his redheaded friend eating without closing his damn mouth. He looked down at his empty plate, sighed, and pushed it back.

"I'm not really hungry," he mumbled, stealing another glance at the Headmaster who was none-the-wiser. Then he looked back at Ron and thought. "Hey, Ron?"

"Mmh?" The redhead managed to articulate through the mush of food in his mouth.

"Do you wonder if some of our professors had any children?"

Ron paused, baffled. "Uh, mate, that's not something that I really think about, you know? I mean, I don't want think about a mini-Snape somewhere. Can you imagine the horror?" Harry and Ron both shuddered before the redhead continued, "Anyway, no. I don't wonder about that. Why? Why are you asking me?"

Harry pursed his lips, wondering if he should tell Ron the truth, but then again, if he couldn't tell his best friend, who was he supposed to tell?

"I— I've been having this weird dreams," Harry said, his voice hushed. "It's— it's a girl—"

Ron scrunched his nose. "Merlin, I don't want to hear this—"

"It's not like that," Harry immediately countered. "It's— it's different, okay? Whenever I have these dreams, I feel— I feel so— so happy. Like happiness is something that I can hold in my hands and it's— it's real. Whenever she laughs or smiles or even looks at me, I feel complete, content. And whenever I wake up, I feel like I'm missing something even though I don't know what or who or why." He leaned forward and caught Ron in the eye. "The thing is, I never met her in my entire life. Not once. Not ever. I don't know her and I have never seen her before. But I've been dreaming about her for weeks and I can't seem to stop."

Ron's eyes had widened throughout his whole speech. He eyed the green eyed boy with a strange expression as though he was thinking 'oh-my-God-my-best-friend-has-gone-mad.'

"Maybe this girl isn't real?" Ron asked, finally swallowing the mush in his mouth. "Maybe it's something your head thought of because— err— of what happened last year and this year. Like some kind of break from the things that happened to you."

Harry shook his head, ignoring the twinge that squeezed his chest as he tried to ignore the oppressive space that Sirius used to occupy.

"She's real," he told him. "She's real, Ron."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because I saw her picture yesterday." Harry leveled him with an intense stare. "And that picture was taken in 1941."

Surprise couldn't cover the full extent of Ron's expression.

"Holy shit," Ron whispered, adapting the curse word after hearing it from one of their roommates, Dean, a couple of years back. "You aren't pulling my leg right now? What? So, you can speak to people from the past now?"

Harry shook his head. "No, no, it's not like that. It's—" He paused. He wondered if he should say more. He wondered if Ron thought that he was mental or was becoming one. Then he decided he didn't care. "I saw her picture, Ron, and it said that she died on 1941."

"What the fuck?" Ron blurted out another curse word courtesy of Seamus this time. "What? So, you talk to dead people from the past right now?"

"That's not the only thing I learned," warned Harry.

"I'm almost afraid to ask." Despite looking freaked out, Ron seemed unable to shake off his curiosity.

Harry lowered his voice even more. "The girl, Ron, her name is Hermione— Hermione Dumbledore."

Ron's next reaction wasn't something that Harry anticipated.

Ron blanched. He completely went white as though he'd been drained all of his blood. He looked around them hurriedly as though he was making certain that no one was listening in their conversation.

Then he hissed at Harry, "Don't say her name!"

Harry leaned back, astonished. "What? You— You know her?"

"Of course I bloody know her!" Ron hissed again and Harry didn't understand why her name produced such a reaction from his best mate. Ron darted his gaze around before he leaned forward to Harry. "Everyone in this country knows her, Harry. Merlin, everyone in the Wizarding World knows her. But we don't speak of her name— ever."

Harry was confused. "Why? What's going on?"

"Merlin! Sometimes I forget that you were raised by those muggles," he said, shaking his head.

Harry grew angry. "Tell me," he demanded strongly. "What's going on? Who is she?"

Harry's eyebrows furrowed. He was confused, shocked, and unable to comprehend that his dream girl wasn't a figment of his imagination but someone that was obviously well-known.

Ron licked his lips before answering, "She's... She's Dumbledore's daughter, Harry, and she died in this school, you know? And it isn't the same as the other ghosts here, Harry. She died to protect the school back then and some said," his voice turned into a whisper, "that her death made Dumbledore snap. That's why he's gone barmy, you know? Because she died." He shook his head. "I don't really know the full story but my Mum told us that the reason why Hogwarts is the safest place in Britain is because of her. Said something about her death being a sacrifice to protect the students or something like that. I don't really know the extent of it but the bottom line is, you don't speak her name."

"And why is that?" Harry asked.

Ron shrugged his shoulders. "Her name's like a curse, Harry. Even though she protected this school, something mysterious happens whenever someone speaks her name. It's like a curse, Harry. I heard that some people died suddenly after saying her name. It's almost as worse as You-Know-Who, you know? It's scary shit. That's why no one ever speaks of her name." Then he eyed him sternly. "And you shouldn't, too. Merlin, I don't even know why or how you dream about her."

Harry pursed his lips. He didn't know why too but he got a feeling that there's more to this somehow, that he's missing some kind of connection that he managed to overlook but it was there even though he didn't know exactly where.

He glanced at Dumbledore who was speaking with Professor McGonagall with a familiar twinkle in his eye.

He slowly, imperceptibly narrowed his eyes.


	24. November 15, 1937 — First Year

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.**

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

**_November 15, 1937 — First Year_**

"I'm really sorry about Fleamont, Tom," Hermione said for the nth time as they walked towards their respective classes.

They would had to separate soon since Tom's next class was DADA and Hermione's was Charms. Tom was taking his time with Hermione but if she wasn't going stop apologizing soon, he'd likely spell her mouth shut. Tom sighed, irritation making his skin itch. Why couldn't she just leave this be? He didn't care an iota about what Potter had said. He didn't even care anything that was remotely related to Potter!

"It's fine," Tom said exasperatedly, waving her apologies away like they were flies he wanted to swat. "I don't really care about Potter. He was... He was only trying to protect you."

It left a sour taste in his mouth, knowing that Potter was trying to be valiant or something. Tom had only allowed Potter's insolence because it was on behalf of Hermione. He could appreciate his loyalty and his attempt at protecting Hermione even if it was against the wrong person. But still, knowing that Potter questioned his relationship with Hermione and that Tom couldn't do something about it, made him very irritated. Add to the fact that Hermione kept apologizing for actions that weren't her own, Tom was all too ready to unleash his growing frustration on someone.

"He doesn't have a solid basis in his accusations that doesn't stem from the opinions of his family about my house," Tom continued. "It doesn't bother me so it shouldn't bother you either."

"But I am bothered," said Hermione, unwilling to let this matter go. "I'm especially bothered with the fact that he told you to stay away from me."

Tom sighed under his breath. "I knew that I shouldn't have told you what happened."

If Hermione wasn't so perceptive of his moods and if she wasn't so good at spotting his lies, Tom could've avoided this painfully inducing conversation. But no, he just had to tell her the truth now, hadn't he?

"Well, I'm glad that you did!" Hermione shot back at him. "I would be terribly upset if you didn't. Fleamont has no right to do that."

"Yes, yes, as you said countless times," Tom said monotonously.

"Yes, I know!" Hermione continued, either unaware of his lackluster response or simply ignoring it. "But I just can't believe that he'd do that. I know that there's no love lost between the two of you but this kind of behavior is very uncharacteristic of him that I just have to put him on his place. He can't dictate who I befriend. Honestly!"

Tom counted to ten, backwards, in Latin.

"And accusing you of being a dark wizard!" She continued. "I can't even comprehend what prompted him to accuse an eleven years old of being a dark wizard! Oh, Tom, I'm so sorry that he said that to you."

Merlin, there's that sorry again! It was truly grating on Tom's nerves. She had nothing to apologize for except for having such sorry excuse of Gryffindor friends. She shouldn't apologize for the actions that was done by her friends, and to be so stubborn about it! This aspect of her personality wasn't something that he was fond of. He disliked it immensely that it was prompted by Potter.

He was already frustrated enough that he hadn't found anything in the library about his heritage. No matter how many newspapers he scoured and Hogwarts yearbooks he examined from cover to cover, he still hadn't found anything that about his family name, Riddle. He was certain that he wasn't a mudblood; no one of pure blood would ever be chosen for Slytherin. He'd already been told that Riddle wasn't a wizard name but he'd been so certain that it was. Maybe he was a half-blood. If he wasn't a pureblood, he would be a half-blood at least.

If he was a half-blood, it'd make things easier for him in his house but also difficult. He had the protection of the three Slytherin princes but he didn't want to rely on that protection any longer. All he needed was a connection to one of the pureblood families but even after many weeks, he still hadn't found anything that could lead him to a pureblood family. He was angry at himself because of his failure. Now, Hermione was worsening his temper by mentioning Potter in his presence.

Potter. Potter. Potter. Tom sneered inwardly, his chest burning. Okay, so maybe he cared about Potter— but that was only because Potter was friends with Hermione and thought of himself as her knight in shining armor. Now, Hermione was talking about him and Tom would be very happy if she could just stop already before his ears bled. He knew that she was mad at Potter, even pleased about it in fact, but he would really like to go on with his day without her mentioning a thing about him again. She already got to live in the same dorm as Potter and now she's talking about him?

Potter might not be physically there but he might as well be since he was monopolizing Tom's time with Hermione!

"It's just so unbelievable! What he did was—"

"Hermione," he said through his barely contained anger, "you are very important to me but if you as much as mention Potter in my presence, I will stick your tongue to the roof of your mouth."

She paused in the middle of the hallway which forced Tom to stop as well.

Hermione blinked her eyes. "But I thought you don't care what Fleamont said."

"Precisely," Tom answered through gritted teeth.

Now could she finally shut up?

"Then why did you threaten to curse me?"

He threw his hands in the air, thoroughly fed up. "Because you are annoying me, you barmy witch!" He snapped, huffing. "You have been talking about Potter since breakfast! I've heard nothing but Potter all throughout the day! So help me, if you mention him again today, important or not, you will lose your tongue!"

Hermione recoiled back at the vehemence that sprouted from Tom's voice. Seeing her stunned expression, Tom kept ahold of his emotions. The last thing that he wanted was to take his anger out at Hermione.

"That wasn't very nice, Tom," Hermione said, frowning. "I just wanted to apologize—"

"And you already did. Countless of times. I accepted it already so this conversation is over," he said, glaring at her. "You don't have to prolong this conversation by mentioning Potter all the time! I don't care what he thought or what he did. I don't care anything about him so drop it, Hermione. I mean it."

Hermione's lips quivered and there was a wet sheen that coated her eyes. Tom knew that she was about to cry and he averted his gaze, blowing out a deep and frustrated breath. His anger hadn't abided and he knew that if Hermione pushed, he'd snapped. He wished that she wouldn't push him so but Hermione was proving herself a pretty stubborn thing.

"I'm just worried about the two of you," Hermione said quietly, her voice slightly breaking. "You two are my friends and I don't like to see you fighting like this. Maybe, if you two could learn to get along—"

Tom snapped his eyes to her. "Are you serious right now?" He spat. "Hermione, you can ask anything of me, but asking me to play nice with Potter isn't one of them. Not in this life and not in another. The only thing that we have in common is being friends with you and that's it. He can stay on his side and I can stay on mine."

She bit her lower lip. "If you two could just—"

"No!" He barked out, glaring at her.

Why couldn't she just let this matter drop?

She snapped her mouth shut and then glared back, unshed tears still in her eyes. "Is it wrong for me to hope that two of my friends can get along? I just want you and him to stop fighting with each other."

"Well, too bad that you can't always get what you want." Tom sneered. "Just because you're Gryffindor's golden girl and princess, doesn't mean that everything has to play by your rules. You seem to forget that I'm in Slytherin and you cannot lord over me just like the rest of your Gryffindor subjects. I am not them and don't even think about making me one of them!"

Her cheeks went red and a flash of anger crossed her eyes. "I can't believe that you would accuse me of that! I am not lording over anyone, least of all you! I never tried to pretend that you're one of them and I never thought of making you into one of them! And how dare you, one of my dearest friends, to even think that about me! I will not have you disparage my character! I have never thought of you like that and I am offended that you would think that I did! Is it so wrong to think that there's the slightest chance that you and Fleamont can tolerate each other? Is it so bad that I hoped at least?"

Tom was momentarily stunned, knowing that this was the first time that he had come across Hermione's anger. Oh, he'd seen enough when it was directed to other people but it had never been directed to him. Even when he was ignoring her before and snapping at her when they weren't friends yet and he thought that she was annoying, she had always been patient with him, gentle and caring. She had snapped at him before, after Mulciber's and Avery's attack on her, but never this much. This was the first time that she had ever unleashed her anger to him.

He pursed his lips, not liking this turn of events.

"And just because you're angry doesn't mean you have to take it out on me!" Hermione concluded with a glare.

Tom didn't respond, just glaring at her for a moment before turning around and marching to his class, seething to himself.

He didn't hear her follow him and he ignored the sinking feeling weighing in his stomach.


End file.
